Estranged faces missing many-splendored things

I went to zen today. As usual it was hard to go, I used every excuse in my mind, but I still went. While meditating it was hard to concentrate. My inner critic was going on and on about how I will never get anywhere just meditating once a week. I started to make plans about meditating every evening, every morning, but then I stopped. How many times will I do the same thing? How many times will I make grandiose, impossible plans for the seeming purpose of disappointing myself? After the meditation, my teacher lead a discourse and as usual, gave me much to think about. He often quotes poetry during our discussion. Today he quoted Francis Thompson, especially the poem "The Kingdon of God" below.


The Kingdom of God

O WORLD invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air--
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumor of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!--
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places--
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry--and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry--clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!

by Francis Thompson