Poem 3 of 95 Poems
now air is air and thing is thing:no bliss
of heavenly earth beguiles our spirits,whose
miraculously disenchanted eyes
live the magnificent honesty of space.
Mountains are mountains now;skies now are skies --
and such a sharpening freedom lifts our blood
as if whole supreme this complete doubtless
universe we'd(and we alone had)made
-- yes;or as if our souls,awakened from
summer's green trance,would not adventure soon
a deeper magic:that white sleep wherein
all human curiosity we'll spend
(gladly,as lovers must)immortal and
the courage to receive time's mightiest dream
Poem 73 of 95 Poems
let's,from some loud unworld's most rightful wrong
climbing,my love(till mountains speak the truth)
enter a cloverish silence of thrushsong
(and more than every miracle's to breathe)
wounded us will becauseless ultimate
earth accept and primeval whyless sky;
healing our by immeasurable night
spirits and with illimitable day
(shrived of that nonexistence millions call
life,you and i may reverently share
the blessed eachness of all beautiful
selves wholly which and innocently are)
seeming's enough for slaves of space and time
--ours is the now and here of freedom. Come