The twinkling of an eye, and the boxes on the floor Hang from the ceiling. Really they are not boxes, But only certain black lines on white paper, (The programme of an hour of magic an illusion) And, but for the eye, not even black on white, But a vast molecular configuration, A tremor in the void, discord in silence. Boehme agrees with Jasper Maskelyne That all is magic in the mind of man. The boxes, then, depending on my mind Hang in the air or stand on solid ground; Real or ideal, still spaces to explore: Eden itself was only a @3gestalt@1. My house, my rooms, the landscape of my world Hang, like this honeycomb, upon a thought, And breeding-cells still hatch within my brain Winged impulses, (And still the bees will have it that earth has flowers) But the same dust is the garden and the desert. Ambiguous nothingness seems all things and all places. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUNTING SONG, FR. ZAPOLYA by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AUTUMN (1) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ON A GREEK VASE by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN TIMES GO BY TURNS by ROBERT SOUTHWELL THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER |