...And
in the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A
motion and a spirit that impels
All
thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And
rolls through all things. Therefore am I still…
from 'Tintern
Abbey' by William Wordsworth
You’ve
set me here, and no doubt find me frail
because
I cannot reach the heights. I’m less than
perfect
in your eyes. So be it. I can
do
no more; don’t comprehend the scale
on
which you work. That vast light blinds; you veil
yourself.
Let mystics, then, unclothe you and span
eternity.
Do what you will. I’ll scan
the
slight horizons here that tell the tale -
those
stars, the details of that master plan,
and
in the blue sky, and in the mind of man
those
normal bits of bright - the lives that wait
for
death once they are born. A long night swells
around
them as they shoot and fall, excels
the
lesser seas that drown them here. It’s fate,
I
hear? Oh, really? You’re no fool! Debate
that
with yourself, then tell me what compels
you
to lie so artfully. It’s what repels
me;
we’re trapped by it, but you create
as
freely as you will while in you dwells
a
motion and a spirit that impels
you
forward. Why not us? Wrapped in this caul
of
flesh, we are still sparks of you. You taught
us
that. These limits you impose are fraught
with
hopes and freedom’s dreams, and so I call
you
cruel, not paradoxical, to stall
us.
What makes you do it? You said you’d brought
an
ark with you, but leaving us distraught
and
shipwrecked on all shores, you’re off to trawl
for
gold. Then finding only that you’ve caught
all
thinking things, all objects of all thought,
in
those great nets, you play some more, then claim,
my
child-God, that you have such goodwill
when
catching fish. Not so! As those heaps fill
your hollow holds they heave and thrash. Proclaim
it
how you will, they drown in air. One aim
is
clear: pain doesn’t trouble you; you kill
because
you can, as we do here. You chill
my
thoughts, but fully expect that I’ll acclaim
your
majesty, the never-peaceful will
that
rolls through all things. Therefore am I still.
