Nothing, it seemed, between them and the grave.

No, as I looked, there was nothing anywhere.

You’d think no ground could be so flat and bare:

No little ridge or hump or bush to brave

The horizon. Yet they called that land their land,

Without a single thought drank in that air

As simple and equivocal as despair.

This, this was what I could not understand,

The reason was, there was nothing there but faith.

Faith made the whole, yes all they could see or hear

Or touch or think, and arched its break of day

Within them and around them every way.

They looked: all was transfigured far and near,

And the great world rolled between them and death.