Light

We do not touch the texture of the light. But one may see with a secret eye The things that are. Then we divine that we need not die To win our heritage of sight. As well this earth as any other star.

Waking from dream there trails an alien air, A residue of other suns than these; We know that we have walked an inner way, Have met familiars there And kept our step in exquisite concord The while we spoke some unremembered word. And over all there lay Light whose vibrations ran to other keys Than those we woke upon. Light whose long play Was dappled colour delicately kissed. Strange fires rayed from strange regions of the Lord. Light from the sun behind the sun fell where We went to keep our tryst.

In sleep and in the solitary dusk there come Fine lines of light upon the lowered lids, A flush that lets us in the heart of night And hints dear wonders to be there at home; As if the universal fabric bids Its human pattern know that all is light. In snow Have we not seen the whiteness smitten through With sudden rays of glory, vague with veils, Of some beloved hue that pales To earthly rose and violet and blue? Oh you Who pulse within that light--we know, we know!

Soon From without transition night We would come into this, our own. Then the dim tune The which we almost hear, The low-keyed colour and the word We have not heard, All these we shall be shown, And infinitely near To God, breathe for our breath his light.