Death is God's last gracious gift,
Birth, a magical thing;
And between these poles
Spans a little world
On which I continually spin.
My world is observed by many
Though inhabited only by me;
A solitary landlord
Of unsure pretensions,
This incredible thing.
I know neither world I frequent,
Nor much of the Crusoe marooned.
I address the looking-glass daily;
Ask: "Who am I?"
But get no reply.
Serve quotidian duties
With more head than heart,
Falter at every fork in my path,
Grow weary of playing the parts that I play
Except when God in his kindness
Draws eyes to the wonder of things.
Then between these two poles
Spanning my little world,
Between birthday and last-day
That round my days ring,
I sense what's beyond,
What is felt but not seen.
And the felt things ring true
And creation sings
As I find myself sharing
The brashness and daring
This cosmical conjuror brings.
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