Where
I was they could never find me
For
where I lived they would never want to stay
No
pleasures there were any they would like
No
roads there would they ever want to take
Beyond
the ends of the sky, across its widest reach
Across
the eye that had never known a thing
Passed
the hated pivot-sight, that turned me
Ran
the heart-light, that ever burned in me
And
tipped me out . . .
Small
as a jasper flash of the wing of a monarch
Small
as a green water reed blown by the wind
Small
as a rushlight that could set alight a city
The
life in me that was not mine to own
The
light in me that had taken me so completely
That
had left me no image, no image of any – thing
No
husk of a seed – no outer knowing
That
I could point to paper for any reliance upon it:
Mine
was the joy of being nothing
And
of no consequence . . .
In
that glad estate, my glory, there I was met
There
where the dust motes floated in a sunbeam
There
was the delight I had one with them in freedom.
*
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