Whose Will decreed this landlocked sea
Framed falling sun with flash of green?
What plan determines stone's design,
Or hearts of stars, or shadow's sheen,
Or that we mark, as clever beasts,
The passing haze of comet's fall,
Or are that glaze of dream in flesh
That sees the need of plan at all?
I know, I know... no plan at all
Is said by some to be the plan.
And yet what is this sheen of thought
That seems to measure more than man?
Look out not deep but far afield,
Beyond the limits of our sight.
It cannot be that all that is
Is only night on deeper night.
But if night should be all that is,
And all as purposeless as stone,
The heart still sings the body's chants,
And moves the light along the bones.
Perhaps this pattern that we know
As woven time between two lights
Is but some dance cast to amuse
The Face beyond our blinded sight.
Yet what dark mind could find a gleam
Of pleasure from such turns,
Instead of reading evil
In our countenance of burns?
The countenance of comets
That the sky at night assumes
Mutes all mimes’ mathematics learned
From the continent of tombs.
For to stand within a meadow
And mark the swell of wind
Is ample compensation
For the gift that days rescind.
At length our modern marvels
Are but blots of haze on slate
That we note with lapsed attention
As we step between the gates,
And dance, to some faint music,
Along the path of life’s retreat,
That ancient, ageless minuet
That rounds this sleep with sleep.
Posted by gerardvanderleun at August 10, 2013 11:56 PM