Imagine that: the World just goes on being the World. Beautiful, mysterious, unfathomable. Taciturn, yet eloquent with Immanence.
Often I've heard the Wind sigh
By the ivied orchard wall,
Over the leaves in the dark night,
Breathe a sighing call,
And faint away in the silence,
While I, in my bed,
Wondered, 'twixt dreaming and waking,
What it said.
Nobody knows what the Wind is,
Under the height of the sky,
Where the hosts of the stars keep far away house
And its wave sweeps by --
Just a great wave of the air,
Tossing the leaves in its sea,
And foaming under the eaves of the roof
That covers me.
And so we live under deep water,
All of us, beasts and men,
And our bodies are buried down under the sand,
When we go again;
And leave, like the fishes, our shells,
And float on the Wind and away,
To where, o'er the marvellous tides of the air,
Walter de la Mare, Peacock Pie: A Book of Rhymes (Constable 1913).
Robert Ball (1918-2009), "Mrs Barclay's Pond, Harborne" (1949)