Whose Will decreed this landlocked sea
Framed falling sun with glint of green?
What plan determines stone’s design,
Or star’s hot heart, or shadow’s sheen,
Or that we mark, as clever beasts,
The passing haze of Comet’s fall,
And are that glaze of dream on 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.
But what then are these shimmered thoughts
That seem to measure more than man?
Pray not deep down but far afield,
Beyond the limits of our sight.
It cannot be that all that is
Is only night on deeper Night.
But should such Night be all that is,
And all as purposeless as stone,
The Heart still sings the body’s chants,
And moves His Light within our bones.
Perhaps this pattern that we live
In woven time between two Lights
Is but some Dance done to amuse
The Face beyond our blinded sight.
Yet what Dark mind could feel a gleam
Of pleasure from such turns,
Instead of parsing shrouds of Night
From our countenance of burns?
The Countenance of Comets
That the sky at night assumes
Mutes all mathematics carved
On this Continent of Tombs.
For to stand within a meadow
And sense 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 faint 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 our sleep with Sleep.