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Under these twisted boughs
Of the old wisdom, where
Mixing leaves with air
Off the sea below
This is what they say --
fi rst was skill,
What a craftsman knew,
Physician, sculptor, smith,
And it is so still,
Being just a way
Not a thing to keep
Or a state of mind
That we stiff en with
And go slowly blind --
But an act of mind
In the course of being,
Going with our seeing;
To sit still and know
Is itself to do,
In our moving through
With the rest of things;
Standing here, we go,
Passing we stand still
(So the gray grove sings
Whitening on its hill)
Till at last we see
Or rather, learn to guess
In our doubleness,
That awake we sleep,
Sleeping we're awake,