At the back of the brain a picture lies
Of all we have been and done,
And ever and then a color flames
In the shadow of thought's sun.
At the back of the brain our life-tale's writ
In wondrous words and fine,
And poet and painter but mimic it,
Your life, my friend, and mine.
They are God's spies it may be, yet
They lack the art to limn
The back of the brain of a man that moves
And makes a dream of him.