 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
306
CONSCIOUSNESS.
The wondrous-fashioned wards, so complex-fine,Of that fast lock, our Human Consciousness,
How shall we open, and ourselves possess
Of the dread mystery of its design?
Some would with searchings of the heart divine
The secret, and the brain with questions press;
The lock pick, cut the key to pattern, guess
The trick o' 't, but the lock doth still decline
To turn or yield. Art, force alike are vain:
Now on a fine-stretched nerve it seems to dance,
As on a tight-rope, one end in the brain,
One nowhere! Atoms blend in consonance,
And lo! we think and feel! Yet who, again,
Designed, and fixed “The thus far” in advance?
| Stones from The Quarry | |