The Poet...by Hilda

No, i don’t pretend, in a way to understand,
Nor know you
Nor even see you;
I say, 
“I don’t grasp his philosophy,
And I don’t understand,”
But I put out a hand, touch a cold door,
(We have both come from so far)
I touch something imperishable;
I think,
Why should he stay there?
Why should he guard a shrine so alone,
So apart,
In a path that leads nowhere?
He is keeping a candle burning in a shrine
Where nobody comes,
There must be some mystery
In the air
About him.
He couldn’t live alone in the desert,
Without vision to comfort him,
There must be voices somewhere…
-The Poet- by H.D.