This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death, and the stars.
- Walt Whitman
It's not quite time for my flight into the wordless (I have 50 more pages to turn in before Monday), but a professor friend posted this on Facebook tonight and it undid me. So beautiful, and quite apt. Even in the midst of this finals anxiety, my heart breaks to leave this place.
I leave Yale, but the "themes thou lovest best" do not leave me. And I do anticipate intense delight when I am able to contemplate them silently, gazingly, away from books (but only if I choose). This poem hits home tonight because it describes the wonderful and meaningful transition I will make from the classroom, seminar table, and debate floor to the private, inner life. Not sad at all. And deeply meaningful.