I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade, <br />So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by, <br />So sharp that the air would turn its edge <br />Were it to be twisted in flight. <br />Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it, <br />And the mark of them lies, in and out, <br />Worm-like, <br />With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel. <br />My brain is curved like a scimitar, <br />And sighs at its cutting <br />Like a sickle mowing grass. <br /> <br />But of what use is all this to me! <br />I, who am set to crack stones <br />In a country lane!<br /><br />Amy Lowell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/miscast-i/
