From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees
The soft blue starlight through the one small window,
The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,
And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly.
It is so long, indeed, since I have written,
Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,
That these first words I write seem cold and strange.
Are you the man I knew, or have you altered?
Altered, of course, just as I too have altered,
And whether towards each other, or more apart,
We cannot say . . . Ive just re-read your letter,
Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure.
Pondering much on all you say in it
Of mystic consciousness, divine conversion,
The sense of oneness with the infinite,
Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose ...