Marigolds in dirt decode the way too
plainly
Let free of slants, the open way
disenchants
And turns the precious thing to dust
But take them out, free their roots of Earth
Shake them, into one single golden
thread
And weave it round again, and lace it
through
The limpid boughs of willow trees
That bending, lower, ever lower as they
grow
Learn to touch the surface of the inner
lake
And dip in maiden streams of milk and
honey
Meeting through the flowing through
The
second way, the way that lifts the Dark
That precious thing, the glorious truth
Where youth,
like a shelter from the storm
Takes
it, and with its own originality
Safely
forms the enchanting of the thing again
Makes
it Light, treasured once more, perhaps
As
the first bright beam of a young moon’s shining.
Time
was, when the morning stars sang together
And
from the very beginning, and by their youth
Made
the lovely keening which is in us, nearer
Nearer by distance, touching by being far away:
Effective, that thing that doesn’t make itself too plain.
*
