A poem by Aldous Huxley (1894 – 1963)


I had been sitting alone with books,

Till doubt was a black disease,

When I heard the cheerful shout of rooks

In the bare, prophetic trees.

Bare trees, prophetic of new birth,

You lift your branches clean and free

To be a beacon to the earth,

A flame of wrath for all to see.

And the rooks in the branches laugh and shout

To those that can hear and understand:

“Walk through the gloomy ways of doubt

With the torch of vision in your hand.”

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