AMONG SCHOOL CHILDREN
 
 I WALK through the long schoolroom questioning;
 A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
 The children learn to cipher and to sing,
 To study reading-books and histories,
 To cut and sew, be neat in everything
 In the best modern way – the children's eyes
 In momentary wonder stare upon
 A sixty-year-old smiling public man.
 I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
 Above a sinking fire.  a tale that she
 Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
 That changed some childish day to tragedy –
 Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
 Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
 Or else, to alter Plato's parable,
 Into the yolk and white of the one shell.
 
 III
 And thinking of that fit of grief or rage
 I look upon one child or t'other there
 And wonder if she stood so at that age –
 For even daughters of the swan can share
 Something of every paddler's heritage –
 And had that colour upon cheek or hair,
 And thereupon my heart is driven wild:
 She stands before me as a living child.
 Her present image floats into the mind –
 Did Quattrocento finger fashion it
 Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind
 And took a mess of shadows for its meat?
 And I though never of Ledaean kind
 Had pretty plumage once – enough of that,
 Better to smile on all that smile, and show
 There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.
 What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap
 Honey of generation had betrayed,
 And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape
 As recollection or the drug decide,
 Would think her Son, did she but see that shape
 With sixty or more winters on its head,
 A compensation for the pang of his birth,
 Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?
 Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
 Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
 Solider Aristotle played the taws
 Upon the bottom of a king of kings;
 World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras
 Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings
 What a star sang and careless Muses heard:
 Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.
 
 VII
 Both nuns and mothers worship images,
 But thos the candles light are not as those
 That animate a mother's reveries,
 But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
 And yet they too break hearts – O presences
 That passion, piety or affection knows,
 And that all heavenly glory symbolise –
 O self-born mockers of man's enterprise;
 VIII
 Labour is blossoming or dancing where
 The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
 Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
 Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
 O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
 Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
 O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
 How can we know the dancer from the dance?