Classic Poem

While the orchestra plays you, mighty symphony,
While the masters and critics are debating what you mean,
I stand here and there listening and I say nothing
I do not know what you mean but I like you—
You fill me with life and I cannot explain life but I am satisfied.
(Or do I fill you with life and is that the secret)?
I do not know that I would be much better off, or any, if I could tell what you mean:
I have such joy in you I do not ask the meaning of joy,
I receive such inspiration from you I do not ask the meaning of inspiration.
I know that the sun is bountiful but I also know that you are bountiful:
The sun up there in the heavens is hot with fire—but the fire is not the meaning of the sun,
Your soul is ablaze with passion—but passion is not the meaning of your soul:
Back of all meanings I can see with the quarrelers is the meaning of peace which eludes definition,
Back of the meaning of the day lit by the sun is another meaning which lights the sun itself.
I do not understand you—you do not come to me to explain and I ask nothing:
I do not seem to want to know—I seem to find my ignorance knowledge enough
While the masters and critics debate and the orchestra plays you, mighty symphony.