intimations of i know not what

endless love at the pace of a snail
the movement of the generations
endless purgatory of situations
available only on a minor scale
the contents of quite another tale
only avoiding those in proper stations
the masters of no new creations
we do not pause to give them hail
abandoned in a vivifying rush
nothing to do but sit and sit and wait
the element of nothing new or strange
interrupting speech with noble hush
the essence of it is not plain or straight
beyond our understanding is its range