A poem by Aldous Huxley (1894 – 1963)


Instants in the quiet, small sharp stars,

Pierce my spirit with a thrust whose speed

Baffles even the grasp of time.

Oh that I might reflect them

As swiftly, as keenly as they shine.

But I am a pool of waters, summer-still,

And the stars are mirrored across me;

Those stabbing points of the sky

Turned to a thread of shaken silver,

A long fine thread.

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