E J Rupert Atkinson Poems >>
Idealism

YOURSELF most composite,
Chequered with day and night,
What secret thing are you? -
Behold that sky of blue:
All that you hear and see,
You are essentially.

Prismatic from the deep
Vast being of your sleep
The seething populous
World, gaily amorous.
Burns verily with each hue
That emanates from you.

Symbol of what you are,
Reciprocal, that star
Burns with your life, no less
Quick with your consciousness
Than your own vital brain.
Cell, muscle, nerve, and vein.

Your soul is so immense,

Mark how it flashes hence

Creating in its flight

Through space, light, always light! . . . .

Yourself disintegrate

You know now every fate.

Man's life is in his art,
Which is no more apart
From him than his flesh is;
It makes the whole earth his,
Creative in each whim
That grieves and pleases him.

That enduring past yet swarms
Out of yourself and forms
The bright world even yet;
The dreams you now forget
Shall be the strange deeds that
All men shall wonder at.

Your changeless will must be
Only eternally
To live, live, and create
Yourself, insatiate,
Desirously diverse,
Careless of boon or curse.

For you in truth desire
Speech only, speech afire,
Most godlike speech which breaks
Like light in you, and makes
Each word, yourself- no less -
Symbol of consciousness.

O fleeting synthesis
Of all that was, and is,
Reflex of earth and star,
Yourself, yourself, you are
The inmost mystery
Of land and sky and sea.