Theophanies: A Book of Verses

As the plant on the smooth of the hill That sees not the deep and the height, That knows not the might Of the whole — I am rooted and grounded in him, The small leaves of my soul Thrust up from his will.

I know not the terrible peak, The white and ineffable Thought, Whence the hill-torrents flow And my nurture is brought. I am little and meek; I dare not to lift My look to his snow. But drink, drop by drop, of its gift.

Some say, on the face Of that ultimate height Small plants have their place: Rapt far from our sight In the solitude strange Where the infinite dream mounts range beyond range To the infinite sky, there they grow.

Where the intellect faints In the silence and cold, There, humble and glad, their petals unfold. As the innocent bell Of the Least Soldanella thrusts up through the snow. So the hearts of the saints On the terrible height of the Godhead may dwell; Held safe by the Will As we, on the smooth of the hill.