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Impressions

A hundred times have I sat,
Mind as porous as lava,
Riding the winds that whistle
Through flinty chambers of stone;
Thoughts fly off like sparrows,
As brief as hummingbirds,
To leave but faint impressions
In dustier regions of soul.

Oftentimes at evening,
For a moment the sky is translucent
In deepening shades of blue;
It seems there are hidden in whispers,
In hints hidden by veils,
Profounder truths than poet has told
In rarer words than poet can pen
Though his thoughts be beryl or gold.