My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
1802.
Consider the sea’s listless chime:
Time’s self it is, made audible, –
The murmur of the earth’s own shell.
Secret continuance sublime
Is the sea’s end: our sight may pass
No furlong farther. Since time was,
This sound hath told the lapse of time.
No quiet, which is death’s, – it hath
The mournfulness of ancient life,
Enduring always at dull strife.
As the world’s heart of rest and wrath,
Its painful pulse is in the sands.
Last utterly, the whole sky stands,
Grey and not known, along its path.
Listen alone beside the sea,
Listen alone among the woods;
Those voices of twin solitudes
Shall have one sound alike to thee:
Hark where the murmurs of thronged men
Surge and sink back and surge again, –
Still the one voice of wave and tree.
Gather a shell from the strown beach
And listen at its lips: they sigh
The same desire and mystery,
The echo of the whole sea’s speech
And all mankind is thus at heart
Not anything but what thou art:
And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.
Nothing.
Nothing but I.
Origin
Black, undistinguished, indistinguishable
Being Outside the world
Static
Forever aware
Forever
Forever present
Forever unformed
Forever unable to tell the secret of My being.
Yet, not from withholding
For I am Origin
Source
Beginning
Everness
Now
It.
Nothing.
I am producing Nothing.
And you, My Love,
Are producing Everything.
As Nothing
I am Supreme Being
Origin indescribable
No-suchness
A mystery
Of non-stirring, knowledge, ceaseless undetectable
presence.
I am Origin of all action and sound
And My agency, the lesser being, the creator
Is Love.
Love is all.
Life is the action of Love
Love’s business
The never-ending tireless endeavour to enact My Being
To describe with creation what I am
And lovingly creating what I am not.
Love fails.
Love always fails, yet never tires of failing
(Even now, Love groans at its own inadequacy to
express in words the Truth I am.)
This the impossible, hopeless task of love
The reason why love lives to serve
Yet must forever remain sufficient only to itself, that task.
Love is the only means I have
And the only means to Me
Nothing.
I am producing Nothing.
An unimaginable substantive endingness
More real than even Love.
I am the space, the pause, the perimeter of sound and
form.
I enable Love’s beauty to be seen.
Where All and the Nothing meet is Man.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!