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A funny poem from our vast
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<< A Poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson >>
Through an ascending emptiness of night,
Leaving the flesh and complacent mind
Together in their suffciency behind,
The soul of man went up to a far height;
And where those others would have had no sight
Or sense of else than terror for the blind,
Soul met the Will, and was again consigned
To the surpreme illusion which is right.
'And what goes on up there,' the Mind inquired,
'That I know not already to be true?'-
'More than enough, but not enough for you,'
Said the descending Soul: 'Here in the dark,
Where you are least revealed when most admired,
You may still be the bellows and the spark.'
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