Galileo gives us dead matter (the atom or the billiard ball) that neither grieves nor disowns grief, is gloriously free of pathos, a teeming, spinning whirl of stuff without meanings to share.

Thoreau awakens to a dawn that inspires, instructs, heartens.  He abjures spinning stuff and embraces swirling, fining fish — works to join them, his swimming totem creatures.

Thoreau delivers revelation through the mist, and invites conversion.  If my muse hears his, if his revelation becomes ours, we together behold. 

We are shattered to behold what we had hitherto only peered at or scanned or scrutinized in an ocular squint.  Revelations shatter, crush, and restore.

Something gets poetically accomplished.  These are moments to revel in.


5 comments on “Revelation

  1. dmf says:

    This is a haunted world. It hath no breeze

    But is the echo of some voice beloved:

    Its pines have human tones; its billows wear

    The color and the sparkle of dear eyes.

    Its flowers are sweet with touch of tender hands

    That once clasped ours. All things are beautiful

    Because of something lovelier than themselves,

    Which breathes within them, and will never die. —

    Haunted,—but not with any spectral gloom;

    Earth is suffused, inhabited by heaven.

    These blossoms, gathered in familiar paths,

    With dear companions now passed out of sight,

    Shall not be laid upon their graves. They live,

    Since love is deathless. Pleasure now nor pride

    Is theirs in mortal wise, but hallowing thoughts

    Will meet the offering, of so little worth,

    Wanting the benison death has made divine.

    Oh, her heart’s adrift with one

    On an endless voyage gone!

    Night and morning

    Hannah’s at the window binding shoes.

    -Lucy Larcom

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