A dumb Inconscient drew life’s stumbling maze,
A night of all things, packed and infinite:
It made our consciousness a torch that plays
Between the Abyss and a supernal Light.
Our mind was framed a lens of segment sight
Piecing out inch by inch the world’s huge mass,
And reason a small hard theodolite
Measuring unreally the measureless ways.
Yet is the dark Inconscient whence came all
The self-same Power that shines on high unwon:
Our Night shall be a sky purpureal,
Our torch transmute to a vast godhead’s sun.
Rooted in mire heavenward man’s nature grows, —
His soul the dim bud of God’s flaming rose.
Notes on Text
Circa 1934. Two handwritten and one typed manuscript. Four handwritten manuscripts and one typed manuscript.