THE SHINING POND

Against the sky’s pale rim The cottage and the trees stood dim. But in the glow, More tense, Of the little shining pond that lay below, The darkened outlines were drawn clear, Sharp to my sense. And gazing there My vision became Empty and passive, no more than a frame For the silver water that burned and burned .... At last, when I turned, My soul was a mirror, on whose surface lay Without a flaw Each momentary thing I saw,— Then slipped away. And I heard Each faint noise, Hardly listening. I heard The noise of the cockchafers around me,— Not only the sound As they boomed in their flight, Above, in the dim light, But as they busily stirred Loosening Heavy body and horny wing, Blundering free Out of the thicket of the may-tree. I saw the flower look up pale-eyed From the tangled grass, And the pale moth climb up, half awake, with quivering wing, And still to the side Of the sedges cling,— Then like a ghost through the brown air pass. And nowhere, Everywhere, The fall, Hollow and clear, Of the cuckoo’s sounding call. And yet so quiet ... every tree (But most the poplar tree, Shooting up Confidently To the sky’s white cup) Appeared eternal. Suddenly, out beyond The dark, I heard a chime. It told of eternity, not of time, It told that the quiet hour was one With the quiet ages gone, With the quiet hours to be Eternally. Shadow crept over the shining pond. I fell into a deep Trance, an illumined sleep.