1820 - 1871
The truth lies round about us,
All too closely to be sought:
So open to our vision that
'Tis hidden to our thought.
We know not what the glories
Of the grass, the flower, may be:
We needs must struggle for the sight
Of what we always see.
Waiting for storms and whirlwinds,
And to have a sign appear,
We deem not God is speaking
In the still small voice we hear.
In reasoning proud, blind leaders
Of the blind through life we go;
And do not know the things we see,
Nor see the things we know.
Single and indivisible,
We pass from change to change,
Familiar with the strangest things,
And with familiar strange.
We make the light through which we see
The light, and make the dark:
To hear the lark sing we must be
At heaven's gate with the lark.