Were it ever to this the world gave,
Separate from cold, bitter resent?
To this, to nothing, let a voice rise,
For being itself, and itself else more.
Prior and ultimate to matter’s manifest,
This which is something, which something is not,
In utter darkness, here this I see,
‘Tis music of silence, ‘tis conscious in sleep.
Though never divine, this present in Presence,
There witnessed the birth of time and space,
And birth did witness this before,
And death; this filled us evermore.
To nothing, for something, that we may learn,
To wonder and fathom everything’s outcast,
Suppose this nothing evaded all,
What would be occupied in absence?
