She felt it as a force; but thought it
as an absence, lack of being,
nothing in its inner self.
Inspired by the words
of a long-dead bishop
she gave intellect a sovereignty
over will and over feeling.
‘Take up and read’, said the voice,
and she listened to the voice:
a child’s soft whisper in
a postlapsarian garden.
And so she picked up and read.
But the words and the book
gave no guidance,
gave no thought to the force
descending upon her.
She closed the book and wept,
and felt the feeling as before.