The Great Poetry, or The Highest Part of Life

I
I grasp the forefinger of the poetical cosmos,
And stride—
Unceasing,
From the deep moment to the deepest momentum,
From the bounded shore to the boundless hymn.

II
I mount the chariot of words,
Ride the circumference of thought,
Then halt—suddenly—
In the cathedral of the mind.

Here, I rest, but only for a breath,
Or turn my wrist to the hollow of solitude,
Stealing the secret wine of the poet’s spirit—
And what remains?
Only this:

The scriptures of the ages
Are the marrow of my verse—
The Quran’s molten gold,
The Bible’s echoing psalm,
The Ramayana’s woven fire,
The Tripitaka’s silent bloom—
All dissolve into the one, eternal poem.

Thus I declare:
The world is the Poem,
And the Poem—
The highest pulse of life.

III
Sometimes, in the cipher of a sparrow’s cry,
Sometimes, in the fracture between joy and sorrow,
Or the wind’s slow confession against my cheek,
I hear it—

The rhythm that writes itself,
The key that turns in the lock of the infinite.