[BNP/E3, 49A3 – 65]

And a far away of hopes moves along streams

And all this clearly is the sense in th’ sky gleams

Or as the river that flowers and has flowered.

_______

All things have an immortal taste and spell

Strange names in a lost language of our soul…

All is an alphabet none can read well

A cabalistic meaning given in th’ swell

Of the presence of things… Sight is a well

On thought’s daring to think, and feeling’s |dole|…

_____

A drunkenness coming from far away

In the soul, where the soul is something else

Does strange things with my sight and my thought, tells

Tales to my consciousness and takes away

The troubledness of touched things, and of each ray

Of the sun makes a forest of |void hells.| 

[65ar]

And my idea of light, wherewith tin[1] jars

Is[2] the immortal pattern of the stars.

4-XII-14.

Here from the casement mine eyes feel themselves lost

By my thoughts’bound i' th’ forest of the stars

And as if this vague feeling were a sea

I feel my soul, bark in that cruelty

Upon its unseen waves {…} tossed

And in my inner being a low morn appears.

___

Strange thoughts, vague mixtures of the opposed space,

That are the me where the stars stay and shine

And the other inner me where thoughts have trace,

Could memory and where motion is divine –

Strange thought like staring at one wisped wine

Run in one futile children’s garden-race…

___

Every sensation takes the largest road

In me. A multitude of children of dreams

Takes by newest storm my castled soul’s abroad.

 
[1] tin /spare\
[2] Is /Are\