The Meaning's Edge

The Soul of Time

by Trumbull Stickney

THE SOUL OF TIME 

T IME'S a circumference 
Whereof the segment of our station seems 
A long straight line from nothing into naught. 
Therefore we say " progress, " " infinity " — 
Dull words whose object 
Hangs in the air of error and delights 
Our boyish minds ahunt for butterflies. 
For aspiration studies not the sky 
But looks for stars; the victories of faith 
Are soldiered none the less with certainties, 
And all the multitudinous armies decked 
With banners blown ahead and flute before 
March not to the desert or th' Elysian fields, 
But in the track of some discovery, 
The grip and cognizance of something true, 
Which won resolves a better distribution 
Between the dreaming mind and real truth. 

I cannot understand you. 

'T is because 
You lean over my meaning's edge and feel 
A dizziness of the things I have not said.

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time

tʌɪm/

noun

noun: time; plural noun: times

1. 1.

   the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole.

Time: You look to me as if you were not in me as well. Can you really see my form, whilst standing within my cascading tides? What do you know?

I know you, for I can see your unique direction - you can only progress one way. 

I can speak of you in numerals and divisions, and behold on my wrist 

Your constituent parts. I cannot see your edge, 

But I know that it must be so. 

For what contains increments, must have a beginning. 

Time: Beware your increments. For they are only yours to keep. 

You think to know me, for you can see me "that long straight line, from nothing to naught". 

But such is the fallacy of your sight, that conceals from you the nature of my form- 

The circumference within and without, of all points leading back to itself. 

But I know you! You are plain across yourself and me 

Homogenous, equal and constant. 

For I have mapped you in my mind and theirs, 

To be the same for all and one. 

And on your back we have marched forth, with armies, flags and flutes, 

On the track of many discoveries - science, mathematics, arts, life and death. 

Time: Oh, but what you measure is but your own mind, not me. 

For in essence, I am but simply an image for you -

The "moving image of eternity". 

You see me like you see the wind, when you look at sand dunes that it shapes. 

You do not really see the wind, but only the form on dune it makes. 

But I have names for you and deeds by you! I know your heart, that crushing and heavy thing, that beats the life out of my body as you pass.

Time: You cannot see my passing gait, for you know not yet how to look behind, or beyond. 

And you think me the same for you, for all and everything forever on?

But don't you know that I can fly for some, and drag for others other times. 

So tell me then, where is my form that you have in your hand? 

"I cannot understand you! 'tis because I lean over your meaning's edge.
And I can feel the dizziness of the things that you have not said."