Come, I would give you
A riddle to plague you.
What of the heaven
That spurs your sight —
That moves before you,
A shadow, moon-colored,
To blind and beckon,
A darkness, a light?

What of the heaven
Of which you know nothing
Save that it makes you
Timorous strength,
Save that it gives you
Silver for breathing,
Save that it leads you
Down the world's length?

The mind will not help you,
The mind's dry laughter
Will baffle and foil you;
Nor will the heart know.
Better to leave it
A riddle, to name it
Mist or a sunbeam,
Or dazzle of snow.