The mind is portable, and its jar is gemmed With prinks of light that color what it is, How it sees itself and makes the world. The mind's not mind that consecrates its acts By pure formula without reference to fact, A mute maestro fiddling fortissimos of the sea. The mind's not mind that curmudgeonly contracts From dauntless dwellings on the abstract To rote particulars of minor fact. The mind is portable, but not without itself Or its jar does it go the world about, Packing up perspective freaks of circumstance Into abstract projections that rainbow a world, Articulate abstracts of that and that That adumbrate austerely the moiling void. The stars are projective gems of crowns That hemmed us in, and that we have thrown away Playing marbles with the void. Still, we see them, dimly, In the besetting dark, past projects of the self With the sun gone down and the night fresh as a wish; Still we wear them in our dreams as crowns, dimly, Effortless masters of fact in our jarring jars.