The noontide was too perfect: there the sheaves
Of rice-straw stood; the breathless trees
Folded their shadows up into their sleeves...
Still even the sleepy hum of autumn bees...
Some miracle, I knew, must come to birth...
An apple dropped to earth.
Behold the sky where the cuckoo sung--
There remains the morning moon.
Behold the world where life cried--
There remains ... Poetry.
Out of the deep and the dark,
A sparkling mystery, a shape,
Comes like the stir of the day:
One whose breath is an odor,
Whose eyes show the road to stars,
The breeze in his face,
The glory of heaven on his back.
He steps like a vision hung in air,
Diffusing the passion of eternity;
His abode is the sunlight of morn,
The music of eve his speech:
In his sight,
One shall turn from the dust of the grave,
And move upward to the woodland.