A taste of Higher Consciousness was mine
When I was but nineteen and lacked the terms
Or concepts then by which I might define
What is ineffable, though soul confirms.
I had, it’s true, been touched by Emerson,
Enraptured by his transcendental themes
In essays I was reading just for fun
But found were luminous with mystic gleams.
Somehow that summer reading before I
Went off to college must have planted seeds
That sprouted in the fall and, by and by,
Produced the crop on which my soul still feeds.
Though yet uncertain of the mystic route,
I’ve had that foretaste of the Absolute.