 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
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This, this is what I love, and what is this?
This, this is what I love, and what is this?
I ask'd the beautiful earth, who said—‘Not I.’
I ask'd the depths, and the immaculate sky
And all the spaces said—‘Not He, but His.’
And so, like one who scales a precipice,
Height after height, I scaled the flaming ball
Of the great universe—yea, pass'd o'er all
The world of thought, which so much higher is.
Then I exclaimed—‘To whom is mute all murmur
Of phantasy, of nature, and of art,
Who seeks not earthly sweetnesses to win,
He, than articulate language hears a firmer
And grander meaning in his own deep heart.’
O voiceless voice—‘My servant, enter in!’
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