Suggestion.

Were the whole gamut ours,
Had we perfected powers,
Were there no beauty, still unseen, to see.
Then might we ask for more
From those who seeking shore.
Catch but the odour of some fragrant tree—

From those who swimming low
Fancy faint outlines—know
For one brief moment from a billow's crest
Vague glories—indistinct
Through rainbow spray—a hint
Of that fair land that lies beyond the West.

Or utterly alone
At midnight, from the throne
Snow draped that waits the coming of the Dawn,
Feel in the dizzy void
Barriers of flesh destroyed
And shuddering know the curtain half withdrawn.

Shuddering lest mortal ear
Immortal sounds should hear
Hear voices which the Silence hardly veils
Yet dreading, swooning, pray
For strength to know—till Day
Draws to the curtain and their effort fails.

Can you express in prose
The essence of the rose?
In song the message of the singing Deep?
Or waking paint your dream,
Such that its beauties seem
The supernatural splendors of your sleep?

Always articulate, A poet scarce were great.
Only the Known has symbols in our speech.
Yet may man's faltering tongue
Striving for songs unsung
Suggest the mysteries he cannot reach.

—Clive Phillipps-Wolley,
1907