|
A Joy that drags not sorrow as its shade. For these she yearns and feels them destined hers: Heaven's privilege she claims as her own right. Just is her claim the all-witnessing Gods approve, Clear in a greater light than reason owns: Our intuitions are its title-deeds; Our souls accept what our blind thoughts refuse. Earth's winged chimaeras are Truth's steeds in Heaven, The impossible God's sign of things to be. But few can look beyond the present state Or overleap this matted hedge of sense. All that transpires on earth and all beyond Are parts of an illimitable plan The One keeps in his heart and knows alone. Our outward happenings have their seed within, And even this random Fate that imitates Chance, This mass of unintelligible results, Are the dumb graph of truths that work unseen: The laws of the Unknown create the known. The events that shape the appearance of our lives Are a cipher of subliminal quiverings Which rarely we surprise or vaguely feel, Are an outcome of suppressed realities That hardly rise into material day: They are born from the spirit's sun of hidden powers Digging a tunnel through emergency. But who shall pierce into the cryptic gulf And learn what deep necessity of the soul Determined casual deed and consequence? Absorbed in a routine of daily acts, Our eyes are fixed on an external scene; We hear the crash of the wheels of Circumstance And wonder at the hidden cause of things. Yet a foreseeing Knowledge might be ours, If we could take our spirit's stand within, If we could hear the muffled daemon voice. 
|
