into the open light

if knowledge is the end that each must seek

through all the tangled forest of the text

it is no wonder that we are so vexed

on the occasion of a sharp critique

delivered in plain words only the meek

affect to listen though they are perplexed

since they have no real sense of what comes next

and no desire to let their hurt minds speak

while up above the hunter is alert

to every nuance of the changing breeze

eager to know what comes in scent or sight

since that one thing may help or may yet hurt

but either way must fall before it flees

and be dragged out into the open light

conquest

so what disrupts requires that we select

with all due art the silver from the dross

taking no notice of what's on the boss

nor even caring truth must have effect

while each must go as their own hearts direct

with grant of knowledge given in the gloss

by those who count the plus side as a loss

for what we had is gone naught will connect

into the afternoon the buzzards plunge

upon the corpse of wisdom is their feast

where all is ended save the scent of dung

here is a sight that nothing could expunge

when hope and virtue have together ceased

and only curses rise from every tongue

seeking the messenger

you make your vision plain in every word

the pulse of nature moving in full heat

and yet we strain for sight of the right bird

nothing is clear all eyesight is quite blurred

the trip is over none will come to greet

you make your vision plain in every word

since on your tongue all truth has been conferred

but this hard fact we're made of bone and meat

and yet we strain for sight of the right bird

proclaiming season's changes have recurred

but time is motion every year more fleet

you make your vision plain in every word

including those that we have not yet heard

break out of silence still our peace is sweet

and yet we strain for sight of the right bird

to wake the morning and to cry absurd

notes of redemption for each empty street

you make your vision plain in every word

and yet we strain for sight of the right bird

the one great morning

what we saw was the mountain not the road

and so mistook the task and were dismayed

but still plugged onward though we were afraid

each of us frightened bearing a great load

of doubt and sorrow though it might explode

the peak above us could only persuade

our simple hearts that we were half decayed

yet we  walked on with hope our one sharp goad

so what we did was make it the whole way

not without pause and not without much pain

since stubborn hearts refused all other choice

to look from summit at a brighter day

with backs all straightened once relieved of strain

and spirits freed to sing and to rejoice