Nov 132013
 
Ruined statues in the park offer no roses 
To the eye--but to the eye within the eye, 
The eye that lets the eye apprehend 
Both stone and rose?  To that eye, 
No violence may be done.  No thumb
May muscle it out, no lid lure it blind
Or blank its vision of the human things it sees.
Milton penning paradise and Homer eating grapes,
Sightless yet serene, saw into the raw marrow
Of what we are:  human--ruined or noble.
Right to the withered pith of us their bone orbs
Dissected fault and fury:  spun Ulysses
Recklessly round the sea's ceaseless sink,
Or rang old Lucifer down from curtained Heaven
To opine alone in the bituminous pit.

If no more blessed by being than merely human,
How, my hearts, account for love's intrusion?

Does such second sight come, as Vishnu advises,
Because we and all things are One?  Why, then,
The universe, however wide, would lack its mystery, 
And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Its surprise.  No elation scintillates when we kiss
No one but ourselves.  No satisfaction crows its kill
If vengeance but defangs the mirror's face.
We know the inward rose of others
By the softness of our own....

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