I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while, and gone my way and forgotten it. But that was the pearl of great price, the one field that had treasure in it. I realize now that I must give all that I have to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after an imagined past. It is the turning aside like Moses to the miracle of the lit bush, to a brightness that seemed as transitory as your youth once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
The bell calls in the town Where forebears cleared the shaded land And brought high daylight down To shine on field and trodden road. I hear, but understand Contrarily, and walk into the woods. I leave labor and load, Take up a different story. I keep an inventory Of wonders and of uncommercial goods.
I climb up through the field That my long labor has kept clear. Projects, plans unfulfilled Waylay and snatch at me like briars, For there is no rest here Where ceaseless effort seems to be required, Yet fails, and spirit tires With flesh, because failure And weariness are sure In all that mortal wishing has inspired.
I go in pilgrimage Across an old fenced boundary To wildness without age Where, in their long dominion, The trees have been left free. They call the soil here “Eden”; slants and steeps Hard to stand straight upon Even without a burden. No more a perfect garden, There’s an immortal memory that it keeps.
I leave work’s daily rule And come here to this restful place Where music stirs the pool And from high stations of the air Fall notes of wordless grace, Strewn remnants of the primal Sabbath’s hymn. And I remember here A tale of evil twined With good, serpent and vine And innocence of evil’s stratagem.
I let that go a while, For it is hopeless to correct By generations’ toil, And I let go my hopes and plans That no toil can perfect. There is no vision here but what is seen: White bloom nothing explains.
But a mute blessedness Exceeding all distress, The fresh light stained a hundred shades of green.
Uproar of wheel and fire That has contained us like a cell Opens and lets us hear A stillness longer than all time Where leaf and song fulfill The passing light, pass with the light, return, Renewed, as in rhyme. This is no human vision Subject to our revision; God’s eye holds every leaf as light is worn.
Ruin is in place here: The dead leaves rotting on the ground, The live leaves in the air Are gathered in a single dance That turns them round and round. The fox cub trots his almost pathless path As silent as his absence. These passings resurrect A joy without defect, The life that steps and sings in ways of death.
Do not try to save the whole world or do anything grandiose. Instead, create a clearing in the dense forest of your life and wait there patiently, until the song that is your life falls into your own cupped hands and you recognize and greet it. Only then will you know how to give yourself to this world so worth of rescue.
A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.’ And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling and running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.