The Sense of Mystery

I WOULD not lose the sense of mystery That broods about our little lives and springs Eternal from the unknown heart of things, Nor miss by rude familiarity Perception of the finer harmony That underlies all dissonance and brings The unseen to our consciousness and flings A glory round our way continually.

For they alone shall win their happiness Who still make room for things inscrutable; And he who sees the greater in the less — Who finds in folded leaf or purple bell The Infinite — doth in himself possess Some kinship with the daily miracle.