Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing
their coloured clothes; cap and bells.
And then
once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the
throng's clamour recedes; the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all, let alone
cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed One, You still,
hour by hour sustain it.
Denise Levertov, from Sands of the Well
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