Spring 1942 • Vol. IV No. 2 Poetry |

Northern Philosopher (Kierkegaard)

Not the world's width, but a deep vein somewhere That disappointment lowered his mind to; That cruelty opened, offering passage: Sanctuary to injured sense; Not the tall sky's excitement, spread With provable numbers, planet and arc; Not the known heads of men and their similar Deeds, building to history, binding Virtue to book and cross: not these, Not upper light, but the sweet dark charmed him: Tunnels he moled in, nosing the source Of tributary, of stranger sorrows; Rooms he was warm in, curling himself In contemplation of scents and moistures. Rare to the world he was. Yet many Listened and wept. His thoughts were tears.

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