I seemed to learn
That what we see of forms and images
Which float along our minds, and what we feel
Of active or recognizable thought
Prospectiveness, or intellect, or will,
Non only is not worthy to be deemed
Our being, to be prized as what we are,
But is the very littleness of life,
Such consciousness I deem but accidents,
Relapses from the one interior life
That lives in all things, sacred from the touch
Of that false secondary power by which
In weakness we create distinctions, then
Believe that all our puny boundaries are things
Which we perceive and not which we have made,
- In which all beings live with god, themselves
Are god, existing in the mighty whole,
As indistinguishable as the cloudless East
At noon is from the cloudless West, when all
The hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
(Ms fragment intended for <i>The Prelude</i>)
