In the tumbling of the divine musician
And the trample of the orators
There was a mystic poetry
The suave cosmic diamond-egg
Of song and meaning, language
That runs like the brightest streams
Down centuries where we have listening
In the overgrown forest of stanzas
And the battlefield of non-silence
There holds our attention, a voice
Mobs of wisdom heralded, a weak voice
Nearly mute, the voice of the soul
On a torn page of Aristotle’s metaphysics
Where genius had no visible shadow
And philosophy has no material counterpart.