"I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you Which shall be the darkness of God. As in a theatre, The lights are extinguished, for the scene is changed With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness, And we know that the hills and trees, the distant panorama And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away- Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations and the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to talk about; Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing- I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would hope for the the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; Yet there is faith But the faith and the hope and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: so the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning. The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry, The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony Of death and birth"