IN PLATO’S CAVE

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon

I form the deep shadow of a violent sun,
     for my back is turned upon event;
     the blinding fact I feel—and shun,
     and my substance is in shadow spent.

Eyes or ears, limbs or lips or nose,
     I have none; but see a simple shadow
     with no face nor feature to expose,
     blotting out all that I would know.

Should I turn, the violent sun will burn,
     blacken and break eyes that tried to forget;
     in that darkness, light is the shadow spurned,
     now my only life, and one which is regret.

Yet this sun to which I do not turn
     is the warming passion upon my back;
     but as its brightness blinds, I learn
     turning or not to face the bright world black.