A World without Objects Is a Sensible Emptiness

The tall camels of the spiritSteer for their deserts, passing the last groves loudWith the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the aridSun. They are slow, proud,

And move with a stilted strideTo the land of sheer horizon, hunting Traherne’sSensible emptiness, there where the brain’s lantern-slideRevels in vast returns.

O connoisseurs of thirst,Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drinkOf pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurstThat shimmer on the brink

Of absence; auras, lustres,And all shinings need to be shaped and borne.Think of those painted saints, capped by the early mastersWith bright, jauntily worn

Aureate plates, or evenMerry-go-round rings. Turn, O turnFrom the fine sleights of the sand, from the long empty ovenWhere flames in flamings burn

Back to the trees arrayedIn bursts of glare, to the halo-dialing runOf the country creeks, and the hills’ bracken tiaras madeGold in the sunken sun,

Wisely watch for the sightOf the supernova burgeoning over the barn,Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit’s rightOasis, light incarnate.

Richard Wilbur, “A World without Objects Is a Sensible Emptiness” from CollectedPoems 1943-2004.