Classic Poem

There is a channel called love
Through the dark way;
Behold! we feel, see wild mass of trees
And blindness to bind us.

The numbness that God has wrought—
We, his exuberant children;
O soul, how many plays in love are sought!
An author's maimed, countless thrill gains.

Halt! spot we own is drawing nearer.
Do you dare to enter at dawn
Where the clouds settle in the north—
And find the way where trembling is dearer?

Well! through the path I strove;
I know not who followed.
I found that I and the liquid air—
Mind, perfume, love!—were swallowed.