The Soul of Time by Trumbull Stickney

  • Anonymous
    2 years ago

    The Soul of Time
    by Trumbull Stickney

    T IME'S a circumference

    Whereof the segment of our station seems

    A long straight line from nothing into naught.

    Therefore we say " progress, " " infinity " —

    Dull words whose object

    Hangs in the air of error and delights

    Our boyish minds ahunt for butterflies.

    For aspiration studies not the sky

    But looks for stars; the victories of faith

    Are soldiered none the less with certainties,

    And all the multitudinous armies decked

    With banners blown ahead and flute before

    March not to the desert or th' Elysian fields,

    But in the track of some discovery,

    The grip and cognizance of something true,

    Which won resolves a better distribution

    Between the dreaming mind and real truth.

    I cannot understand you.

    'T is because

    You lean over my meaning's edge and feel

    A dizziness of the things I have not said.

  • Poet on the Piano replied to Anonymous
    2 years ago

    The depth and eloquence in this is beautiful. Going to read it once more, thanks for posting!