WALK through the fern but do not tear the root.
Rest on the stump but count no ring of age.
In rotting wood see neither hint nor sign,
Nor translate from the oak leaf’s fallen page
One mystic line.
Look at the wheat field, see it blade and straw,
But neither bread nor sealed-in germ nor shadowy reaper.
Leave the close ground its anonymity —
Such knowledge to the blind mole and the worm,
The gray night-creeper.
Leave the enigma to the close-lipped dark.
Beyond your fenced-in land do not inquire,
For things there be best hidden:
Lights that only the blind should see,
And over the hills, in that dim country —
Truth, bare, forbidden.