Chapter II
So do the mottled formulas of SenseGlide snakewise through our dreams of Aftertime;So errors breed in reeds and grasses denseThat bank our singing rivulets of rhyme.By Sense rule Space and Time; but in God’s LandTheir intervals are not, save such as lieBetwixt successive tones in concords blandWhose loving distance makes the harmony.Ah, there shall never come ‘twixt me and theeGross dissonances of the mile, the year;But in the multichords of ecstasyOur souls shall mingle, yet be featured clear,And absence, wrought to intervals divine,Shall part, yet link, thy nature’s tone and mine.