Sharp As Any Knife

(Following Summer Hamori’s quote, “Her passion was her pain”)

Her life was all her passion;
Her mind was all her life;
And what she put to action
Was sharp as any knife.

Men came and tried to handle,
With hope to grasp and fondle;
Burned hands upon the candle,
And back went with no wife.

Saw straight her eyes into them;
She, burning, named and knew them,
And swift that did undo them
Who had less hold on life.

Her passion is half painful,
Yet she remains disdainful,
For still is it more joyful
Than dull, unwhetted knife.

She sits not pallid waiting,
Nor pales with fond regretting,
Her passion always sating
The self that is her life.

She climbs the highest mountain;
She drinks the coldest fountain;
The tower up beyond her
Inspiring joyous strife.

Its glass and steel are flashing,
It cuts the sky with passion;
In single, selfish fashion
It stands alone, supreme.

No castle it, of faery,
Nor mystically airy,
But hard and solid, very,
As fit for Passion’s dream.

A melody sent peerless,
A song so wholly fearless,
Into her ear that hears it,
From open window flies.

No bar has it of weakness,
Nor barren mood of bleakness,
But living strength o’er meekness,
In notes that rise and rise.

She walks up to the doorway;
Above it, one word—YOURWAY,
That flashes quick to—MYWAY,
Then quick again to—MINE.

Up elevator gliding,
In her true home abiding,
She’s glad for her deciding
That “passionate” is fine.

She stops, sees door in-swinging,
Man at piano singing;
His hair is backward flinging,
As blown by every tone.

He glances at her barely,
Yet through her sees he squarely,
And sudden, soft and fairly,
Repeats the high last tone.

Now down come great chords crashing!
Now Passion’s Passion thrashing!
With power unsurpassing
Straight life is not alone!

He stands, puts hands on candle;
She flames and laughs and flares;
At last he has the handle
To which his song compares.

Life’s love is all her story,
Love’s mind is all her life,
And how she moves in glory
Cuts sharp as any knife!

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