Back to her own devices now she turns,
Watches the objects shadowed by their stillness;
The vase stands upright where the first light falls,
   The picture leans on its own shade.
 “But this” she thinks “Is nothing I have made,
I only am the breath between these walls.”

And standing still she tries to make herself
Believe that objects are immune from thought,
That suffering cannot disturb the still
   Vase, that pictures where they hang
Can never prove a feeling right or wrong.
Yet such convictions falter where the will