The Transparent Eyeball (Transcendentalism)
I leave the dusty street and city’s roar,
To stand where ancient pines and sunlight meet;
I cast my years like snakeskin on the floor,
And feel the pulse of earth beneath my feet.
No longer "I," but part of all I see—
A transparent eyeball in the blithe, clear air;
The currents of the Soul flow through me, free,
And wash away each mean and trifling care.
The rhodora blooms within its hidden glen,
The leaf is gold before it turns to gray;
I find a truth beyond the reach of men,
In every common miracle of day.
No church is needed where the forest sings—
The Over-Soul is in the heart of things.
No comments:
Post a Comment