I can’t reveal the mystery to either saint or sinner; I can’t state at length what I’ve said curtly; I achieve an altered state that I can’t explain; I have a secret that I cannot share.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent doctor and saint, and heard great argument about it and about: but evermore came out by the same door as in I went.
This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace; When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help-for it As impotently moves as you or I
Into this universe, and why not knowing Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing; And out of it, as wind along the wate, I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
