I want no faith in this lawful Enormity, and delicate. Filigreed cradle, spanned Past conception, As if a star were the hand of a god. Yet this immeasurable Splendor's unconceived, past faith, It is, And deity conceived is but a mote in all.
That wants observation beyond itself: The observer's dishonest eye, That mismodels what it sees, Which is by this observation altered. What is engaged in the unity Of observer and observed? In a wood am I and of it Too, by this aging heart.