William Brighty Rands (1823–1882)

INTO the skies, one summer’s day,

I sent a little Thought away;

Up to where, in the blue round,

The sun sat shining without sound.

Then my Thought came back to me.—

Little Thought, what did you see

In the regions whence you come?

And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.

But she breathed of what was there,

In the pure bright upper air;

And, because my Thought so shone,

I knew she had been shone upon.

Next, by night a Thought I sent

Up into the firmament,

When the eager stars were out,

And the still moon shone about.

And my Thought went past the moon,

In between the stars, but soon

Held her breath and durst not stir,

For the fear that covered her;

Then she thought, in this demur:

‘Dare I look beneath the shade,

Into where the worlds are made;

Where the suns and stars are wrought?

Shall I meet another Thought?

‘Will that other Thought have wings?

Shall I meet strange, heavenly things?

Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights,

Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?’

Then my Thought began to hark

In the illuminated dark,

Till the silence, over, under,

Made her heart beat more than thunder.

And my Thought came trembling back,

But with something on her track,

And with something at her side;

Nor till she has lived and died,

Lived and died, and lived again,

Will that awful thing seem plain.