Poem 8 (J 242: 1861/1945)

When we stand on top of Things--
And like the Trees, look down--
The smoke all cleared away from it--
And Mirrors on the scene--

Just laying light--no soul will wink
Except it have a flaw--



The Perfect, nowhere be afraid--


Protected by their deeds--

The Stars dare shine occasionally
Upon a spotted World--
And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,


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