I wander at times
In the places that still,
Rearing the silence,
Leaving the chaos at rest.
And I ask, walled in by the beauty,
Where charity left her fine face
For the thoughts that convene in my mind.
It is here, at the dusk of the sobering day
The heart takes its journey to think
And the mind beats in passion unreasoned.
By the beaten old tree,
That lump of the state of the world,
I curl fast into sleeping and dreaming
And dance a good number with wind.
What says the outspoken world
To a boy, still a boy, and never a man
Whose love is the flickering dull
Of a hill—
Or this spot of earth, uneven in stones,
And even the groves sagging low to the dirt?
Why, this is my pen and paper and
All to be offered from sleeping with them!
For reason incongruent,
Impetuous logic, and statements
That shatter the womb of a day,
Are all the fine subjects in daft wording
Spelled, culled from their hiding in
Knotty encampments of oak.
I speak the unspoken; I give it its time,
For the word of the mute is my prophecy;
The visions unseen are the sketch of my pen.
And if the unstirred is aroused,
As potent as light to the uncertain doings of day,
The more and the higher men’s hearts will reach,
Histories called by the remnant earth to remember,
Tomorrow is called to repeat.