If only there were something new to think,
it’s not just current thought is simply stale,
but novelty itself can’t satiate.
Ten thousand snowdrops spread beneath the trees.
A deer in the reedy moat has stopped to drink.
The still huge, waning moon is turning pale,
but beauty somehow can’t elucidate.
I must rely on what has gone before
and comprehend that all things interlink.
And all the ancient wisdom must prevail.
And yet I crave some new scent on the breeze,
that might intrigue before it irritate,
and might enthuse before it starts to bore,
might sweep me to the edge and on the brink
of some great breakthrough let me there exhale
and feel the peace of knowing it’s my fate
and duty not to plough ahead, but wait.
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