A length of spider’s web startles
In thin, shooting brilliance up and
Down its fine extent, appearing
And disappearing, catching colour
In the light, losing it, in a slight
Blown shifting to and from the sun.
We saw a whole field of these once –
Where was it? – as if overlaid –
Acres of it – with shimmering lace:
Beyond counting then, but none
As bright as this one strand of prism,
All the radiant spectrum flashing.
Around it now, the general revelation
Of the morning brings the twigs,
Fence palings, new balls of fruit,
Into the glow of ordinary existence,
And the earth turns another fraction,
And its exquisite creation vanishes.
A chance of sunlight and of sight –
No moment more than this – form
The lineaments of being, where
All that’s given is given to depart,
And we hold nothing of it, but try,
In the act of worship, the work of art.
Originally appeared on VoegelinView Read More