These acres, always again lost By every new ordnance-survey And searched for at exhausting cost Of time and thought, are still away.
They have their paper-substitute - Intercalation of an inch At the so-many-thousandth foot - And no one parish feels the pinch.
But lost they are, despite all care, And perhaps likely to be bound Together in a piece somewhere, A plot of undiscovered ground.
Invisible, they have the spite To swerve the tautest measuring-chain And the exact theodolite Perched every side of them in vain.
Yet, be assured, we have no need To plot these acres of the mind With prehistoric fern and reed And monsters such as heroes find.
Maybe they have their flowers, their birds, Their trees behind the phantom fence, But of a substance without words: To walk there would be loss of sense.
not completely apposite, perhaps, but I couldn't help thinking of this poem whan I read your post! What an extraordinary place.
Comments 4
By Robert Graves
These acres, always again lost
By every new ordnance-survey
And searched for at exhausting cost
Of time and thought, are still away.
They have their paper-substitute -
Intercalation of an inch
At the so-many-thousandth foot -
And no one parish feels the pinch.
But lost they are, despite all care,
And perhaps likely to be bound
Together in a piece somewhere,
A plot of undiscovered ground.
Invisible, they have the spite
To swerve the tautest measuring-chain
And the exact theodolite
Perched every side of them in vain.
Yet, be assured, we have no need
To plot these acres of the mind
With prehistoric fern and reed
And monsters such as heroes find.
Maybe they have their flowers, their birds,
Their trees behind the phantom fence,
But of a substance without words:
To walk there would be loss of sense.
not completely apposite, perhaps, but I couldn't help thinking of this poem whan I read your post! What an extraordinary place.
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