Credo
That each thing is a word
Requiring us to speak it;
From the ant to the quasar,
From clouds to ocean floor-
The meaning not ours, but found
In the mind deeply submissive
To the grammar of existence,
The syntax of the real;
So that alien is changed
To human, thing into thinking:
For the world's bare tokens
We pay golden coin,
Stamped with the king's image;
And poems are prophecy
Of a new heaven and earth,
A rumour of resurrection.
poem by James Phillip McAuley
Added by Poetry Lover
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