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All here was known by a spiritual sense: Thought was not there but a knowledge near and one Seized on all things by a moved identity, A sympathy of self with other selves, The touch of consciousness on consciousness And being's look on being with inmost gaze And heart laid bare to heart without walls of speech And the unanimity of seeing minds In myriad forms luminous with the one God. Life was not there, but an impassioned force, Finer than fineness, deeper than the deeps, Felt as a subtle and spiritual power, A quivering out from soul to answering soul, A mystic movement, a close influence, A free and happy and intense approach Of being to being with no screen or check, Without which life and love could never have been. Body was not there, for bodies were needed not, The soul itself was its own deathless form And met at once the touch of other souls Close, blissful, concrete, wonderfully true. As when one walks in sleep through luminous dreams And, conscious, knows the truth their figures mean, Here where reality was its own dream, He knew things by their soul and not their shape: As those who have lived long made one in love Need word nor sign for heart's reply to heart, He met and communed without bar of speech With beings unveiled by a material frame. There was a strange spiritual scenery, A loveliness of lakes and streams and hills, A flow, a fixity in a soul-space, And plains and valleys, stretches of soul-joy, And gardens that were flower-tracts of the spirit, Its meditations of tinged reverie. Air was the breath of a pure infinite. 
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