The distillation of a thought,
how like the science of a touch—
to brush aside the pretense,
scope within the lake of memory
and know that still intact
is all the passion there submerged,
genuine, for all the years unknown.
How rare! That light may penetrate
the depths of false despair, that history
may reappear and flash its insight
once again upon the yellowed obfuscation
of a consciousness worn clear of hope,
a blindness self-imposed and born
of ennui and pride.
Then from the waves, Excalibur,
and from concentric heritage
a triumph—to the lady evermore,
a mystery surrounding her,
past the eternity of men
who then must yield it back again,
drawn underneath the surface
of the mind of God.