Time Marks Us While We Are Marking

To Follow The Drops Sliding From A Lifting Oar, Head Up, While The Rower Breathes, And The Small Boat Drifts Quietly Shoreward.

And Soon A Branch, Part Of A Hidden Scene,the Leafy Mind, That Long Was Tightly Furled,will Turn Its Private Substance Into Green,and Young Shoots Spread Upon Our Inner World.

The Mind Enters Itself, And God The Mind, And One Is One, Free In The Tearing Wind.

Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.

And I Walked, I Walked Through The Light Air; I Moved With The Morning.