The stars were thinning out; the glare of the Milky Way was dimming into a pale ghost of the glory he had known — and, when he was ready, would know again. He was back, precisely where he wished to be, in the space that men called real.
The Cosmos is all that is or was or ever will be. Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us — there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries.
I am still in the working world. And around here, Tuesday is the worst day of the week. Suddenly I was inspired to write a poem. This is for Ivor and Walt andDwightand all of you who know what poetry is. I really don’t. But I do feel better.