THERE are vast realms of consciousness still undreamed
of
vast ranges of
experience, like the humming of unseen harps,
we know nothing of, within
us.
Oh when man escaped from the barbed-wire
entanglement
of his
own ideas and his own mechanical devices
there is a marvellous rich
world of contact and sheer fluid beauty
and fearless face-to-face
awareness of now-naked life
and me, and you, and other men and
women
and grapes,
and ghouls, and ghosts and green moonlight
and ruddy-orange limbs stirring
the limbo
of the
unknown air, and eyes so soft
softer than the space between the
stars,
and all
things, and nothing, and being and not-being
alternately
palpitant,
when at
last we escape the barbed-wire enclosure
of Know Thyself, knowing we can
never know,
we can
but touch, and wonder, and ponder, and make our effort
and dangle in a last fastidious
fine delight
as the
fuchsia does, dangling her reckless drop
of purple after so much putting
forth
and slow
mounting marvel of a little tree.