Our science is an abstract cold and brief

That cuts in formulas the living whole.

It has a brain and head but not a soul:

It sees all things in outward carved relief.

But how without its depths can the world be known?

The visible has its roots in the unseen

And each invisible hides what it can mean

In a yet deeper invisible, unshown.

The objects that you probe are not their form.

Each is a mass of forces thrown in shape.

The forces caught, their inner lines escape

In a fathomless consciousness beyond mind’s norm.

Probe it and you shall meet a Being still

Infinite, nameless, mute, unknowable.