Poetic effects in nature defy
analysis of form, simply occur,
enthralling sense, the still spectator eye
encompassing it like a literature
of unsaid words, mined by the generations of sedulous writers.
Beyond the poems that mind and hand extract
from nature, its ultimate mystery
eye and heart are privy to, words contract
to, the part from the essence to supply,
limiting in the limitation the limitless bounds of ecstasy.
Ultimately, of course, the truth will out:
words are expressions of human control,
create little worlds men can’t live without,
bound within, easily deny the role
of providence, which has little to say, yet graciously informs all.
While nature stands pristine, without a book
to her name, easily accommodates
all the books in the world, is now mistook
for dumbness, literature now underrates
its spring; and rambles on, a make-believe thing of time and dates.