Each day we wake up with a sense of reeling
As from release or strange heroic act,
Or as if risen from some bed of healing
Not hidden quite by all the walls of fact.
Across the glass of sight the insects shuttle
Roused from their hornets’-nest of little things;
There is a heavy universe to settle
With flesh one doorway open to all stings.
The wind goes through the skin as at a window,
And birdsound through the ear can fill a well;
The eyes will swallow half a sky’s blue splendor
In one quick gulp and gleam with miracle.
The veins in panic scatter through the body
And yet upon the landscape we wake whole,
A unity of bone and blood, and rowdy
We flash the dizzy theories of soul.
It is no past, no pit of dim oblivion,
Nor underground where the subconscious flows
From which we rise urged by the sense of living-
It’s simply, man is freer than he knows.
And like some Atlas, unburdened of his boulders,
We rise up in the field of things we meet,
The earth at long last fallen from our shoulders
And lying everywhere about our feet.
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