Is Life itself but many ways of thought,
Does thinking furl the poets’ pleiades,
Is in His slightest convolution wrought
These mantled worlds and their men-freighted seas?
He thinks—and being comes to ardent things:
The splendor of the day-spent sun, love’s birth,—
Or dreams a little, while creation swings
The circle of His mind and Time’s full girth . . .
As here within this noisy peopled room
My thought leans forward . . . quick! you’re lifted clear
Of brick and frame to moonlit garden bloom,—
Absurdly easy, now, our walking, dear,
Talking, my leaning close to touch your face . . .
His All-Mind bids us keep this sacred place!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 4, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.