Up from the soul, as a blade of grass from the sod,
Springs the intent of the prayer as a cry to God.
Blossoms may veil it or visions with ways uncouth,
He sees the ultimate grass-blade, the heart of Truth.
XXIV
The Philosopher
The grim immensities are mine,
The sunlight on the brook is theirs;
I drink the lees of bitter wine,
Fate grants a gift to all their prayers.
I stammer, all afire to tell
The thoughts that urge for life like pain;
For them words brim the shallow well
Like easy drops of summer rain.
And which, ah, Heaven, which is best—
The little lute for every mood,
Or, shrinking coldly from life’s test,
The heights and depths of solitude?