Why should a single object—one small stone,
a rose, a picture or a Chinese vase
summon strong passions? Why should one
child singing high and clear lift you to the stars,
while a leaden sky hurls you down to hell?
How literal.

And yet, what other words
have you? With what language can you tell
of your silent discourse with another world?
And what is incarnation now? If not
one object, then everything. And what
is Resurrection now? Out of the dying
spring all things green against the grey sky—the breeze,
And in the distance the low-lying hills
Crowned with a ring of ancient surging trees.