LIKE lights that pass, each motion of the mind Flies through the world, seeking its fellow thought; And if but in the twinkling of his days A man shall chance to meet the kindred one -- Then happiness! No more he needs to burn Beside the fire of dearth that pipe, whose smoke Prays to the heedless stars of lonely men. Then in a rare and wonderful abode, Where wit comes not, and thinking has no part, A tender comedy is played and played, That holds the magic meaning of the spheres, And than the murmur of two meeting rills Has no more sense -- yet -- all the sense there is In this, our dream, and that, our coming sleep. And when it's gone, or if it never come, Then in the grieving dark we grope along; Within the shuttered mazes of our souls We wander, and again fall wandering. The endless winds that sweep across the plain, Beggars who meet us in the silent night, Are not more shorn of company than we! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW THEY GO ON by JAMES GALVIN DOMESDAY BOOK: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: SHACK DYE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS by THOMAS CAREW PICTURE-SHOW by SIEGFRIED SASSOON TO S.M., A YOUNG AFRICAN PAINTER, ON SEEING HIS WORKS by PHILLIS WHEATLEY |