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Poem	That flower unseen, that gem of purest ray, Bright thoughts uncut by men: Strange that you need but speak them, Thomas Gray, And the mind skips and dives beyond its ken, Finding at once the wild supposed bloom, Or in the imagined cave Some pulse of crystal staving off the gloom As covertly as phosphorus in a grave. Void notions proper to a buried head! Beneath these tombstones here Unseenness fills the sockets of the dead, Whatever to their souls may now appear; And who but those unfathomably deaf Who quiet all this ground Could catch, within the ear's diminished clef, A music innocent of time and sound? What do the living hear, then, when the bell Hangs plumb within the tower Of the still church, and still their thoughts compel Pure tollings that intend no mortal hour? As when a ferry for the shore of death Glides looming toward the dock, Her engines cut, her spirits bating breath As the ranked pilings narrow toward the shock, So memory and expectation set Some pulseless clangor free Of circumstance, and charm us to forget This twilight crumbling in the churchyard tree, Those swifts or swallows which do not pertain, Scuffed voices in the drive, That light flicked on behind the vestry pane, Till, unperplexed from all that is alive, It shadows all our thought, balked imminence Of uncommitted sound, And still would tower at the sill of sense Were not, as now, its honeyed abeyance crowned With a mauled boom of summons far more strange Than any stroke unheard, Which breaks again with unimagined range Through all reverberations of the word, Pooling the mystery of things that are, The buzz of prayer said, The scent of grass, the earliest-blooming star, These unseen gravestones, and the darker dead.
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