Something in me was born before the
And saw the sun begin from far away.
Our yellow, local day on its wont jars,
For it hath communed with an absolute day.
Through my Thought's night, as a worn robe's heard
That I have never seen,
I drag this
That saw the Possible like a dawn grow
On the lost night before it, mute and vast.
It dates remoter than God's birth can reach,
That had no birth but the world's coming after.
So the world's to me as, after whispered speech,
The cause-ignored sudden echoing of laughter. That 't has a meaning my conjecture knows, But that 't has meaning's all its meaning shows.
