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Poem

So Wordsworth knew,  for every man
will carry still that child within him
as he grew, and molded with an insight
few will trace beyond the purview
of his reason...himself assembling
that which is his own.

What is its origin?  What magic
of the mind takes place?  There is
within us something that we do not
understand...From our childhood
it is there--churning silently,
building in directions that we cannot see,
until as adults it bursts out
as one more copy of humanity!

So there it is...to search the child;
to keep him free, of course. But thereby
to probe the mystery. To range about
the mythic mountain peaks where light
first touches, seek the glories of
angelic song, bask the harbors
where the ships of fortune enter,
this my joyous task, and then
to hunger still, and know
there is a mind to fill, and each of us
may grow a little more, and have a now
to make it so.
           ~

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