Her grace is not of any part,
But selfhood’s self, its very motion,
The moral dream surprised by art
More effortless than wind or ocean,
All spirit flowing out to burn
The essence of its contradiction,
And give more light the more it turn.
Things are not only what they are:
They pass beyond themselves to learn
The tears of the particular.
If she go ranging out of sight
To suffer on a distant star
Her wounding by the infinite,
It is in answer to her law.
Who had of her the world’s delight
And loved her for her sacred flaw
Loves her not less beyond his reach,
Still with the wonder that he saw
Alive. Perfectly to pray,
As the Fathers of the Desert teach,
He does not even try to pray.