In place, we spend our lifetimes full of days
And think the world encompassed by our eyes:
The field we see, the only grass we graze –
Familiar and secure, without surprise.
Upon which every hope and comfort lies –
And lies, indeed, though beautiful they be
Do not encompass all humanity.
And oft, we will look down on other fields
As poor reflections of the truth we know:
Although we’ve fed from one small sort of yields
And slumbered when we might have chanced to go
And taste new grass, wherever that might grow.
But still we stay in place, and never roam,
And boast about the greener grass of home.
But yet — a lifetime spent is not enough
To know a state, a city, or a town:
Perhaps I am mistaken in this stuff,
In thinking those who stay must be held down.
To seek to know oneself, and not renown,
Might be to view the truth’s lone lovely face:
And may be seen by those who’ve stayed in place.