This day writhes with what? The lecturer

On This Beautiful World Of Ours composes himself

And hems the planet rose and haws it ripe,

And red, and right. The particular question—here

The particular answer to the particular question

Is not in point—the question is in point.

If the day writhes, it is not with revelations.

One goes on asking questions. That, then, is one

Of the categories. So said, this placid space

Is changed. It is not so blue as we thought. To be blue,

There must be no questions. It is an intellect

Of windings round and dodges to and fro,

Writhings in wrong obliques and distances,

Not an intellect in which we are fleet: present

Everywhere in space at once, cloud-pole

Of communication. It would be enough

If we were ever, just once, at the middle, fixed

In This Beautiful World Of Ours and not as now,

Helplessly at the edge, enough to be

Complete, because at the middle, if only in sense,

And in that enormous sense, merely enjoy.