pondering

“Who thought love but a motion in the mind?
Am I but nothing, leaning towards a thing?
I’ll scare myself with sighing, or I’ll sing;
Descend, O gentlest light, descend, descend.
O sweet field far ahead, I hear your birds,
They sing, they sing, but still in minor thirds.”

Theodore Roethke, from section 5 “They Sing, They Sing,” of “The Dying Man,” The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke