Mind
    By Richard Wilbur
     
    Mind in its purest play is like some bat
    That beats about in caverns all alone,
    Contriving by a kind of senseless wit
    Not to conclude against a wall of stone.
     
    It has no need to falter or explore;
    Darkly it knows what obstacles are there,
    And so may weave and flitter, dip and soar
    In perfect courses through the blackest air.
     
    And has this simile a like perfection?
    The mind is like a bat. Precisely. Save
    That in the very happiest intellection
    A graceful error may correct the cave.
     
    http://www.batbox.org/poetry/?p=15
     


     

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