Self-Unconscious

Along the way         He walked that day,     Watching shapes that reveries limn,         And seldom he         Had eyes to see     The moment that encompassed him.         Bright yellowhammers         Made mirthful clamours,     And billed long straws with a bustling air,         And bearing their load         Flew up the road     That he followed, alone, without interest there.         From bank to ground         And over and round     They sidled along the adjoining hedge;         Sometimes to the gutter         Their yellow flutter     Would dip from the nearest slatestone ledge.         The smooth sea-line         With a metal shine,     And flashes of white, and a sail thereon,         He would also descry         With a half-wrapt eye     Between the projects he mused upon.         Yes, round him were these         Earth's artistries,     But specious plans that came to his call         Did most engage         His pilgrimage,     While himself he did not see at all.         Dead now as sherds         Are the yellow birds,     And all that mattered has passed away;         Yet God, the Elf,         Now shows him that self     As he was, and should have been shown, that day.         O it would have been good         Could he then have stood     At a focussed distance, and conned the whole,         But now such vision         Is mere derision,     Nor soothes his body nor saves his soul.         Not much, some may         Incline to say,     To see therein, had it all been seen.         Nay! he is aware         A thing was there     That loomed with an immortal mien.