Contours

I am glad of the straight lines of the rain; Of the free blowing curves of the grain; Of the perilous swirling and curling of fire; The sharp upthrust of a spire; Of the ripples on the river Where the patterns curl and quiver And sun thrills; Of the innumerable undulations of the hills. But the true line is drawn from my spirit to some infinite outward place ... That line I cannot trace.