At every instant and from every side, resounds the call of Love:
We are going to sky, who wants to come with us?
Why show me this, if I am past all hope?
Just as the watcher in the night,
Upon the verge of sea and sand,
Looks up to see a glowing ship,
Set down by chance or holy hand,
So I, at edge of road and lawn,
One humid night in deep July,
Hear, carried over hardened waves of
Darkened parking lots, a cry.
And there, just past the High School, there,
The dreadful soccer game unfurls,
Like flock of starlings, sentient smoke,
The light, the cries, and – Ah! – the girls!
A whirlwind of connected souls,
The Daughters of Diana run,
Fitful, flitting school of life,
By distance and by dark made One.
Then, from the vastness of the sky,
A single being treads the night,
And cradles all in loving hand,
And flares up briefly in my sight.
She is here. Reason fails.
Language, context, logic lie
Like glowing ashes, feebly warm,
That shimmer briefly, hiss, and die.
All earthly knowledge comes from this—
Small shards of sense that we can name.
And all that liveth scattered is,
And I a spark, but Thou the flame.
I drift away through human light
Of flickering screens and passing cars,
Whilst she, ablaze in holy dark,
Ascends, and runs among the stars.