A Moonstone

I am no pearl, a seed of perfect whiteness 
Sown out of imperfection: nor am I 
A beryl, gathered in whose mystery 
A hundred charms lie useless. In my brightness 
There is no colour save the gray of tears: 
All colour I have gathered from the years; 
I am a moonstone, I that was of old 
A crystal, clear as water and as cold. 

I am a moonstone, and my heart lies deep 
Under a weight of water, fixed in sleep — 
But let the one hand touch me, though it were 
Light as the flutter of a woman's hair, 
I shall hear, feel, and know the time to grow 
And break my heart to let my colour show. 
Colour not dreamed of by the soul that strays 
Seeking the moonstone many weary days.