There seem at times to stand within my path
Impediments that bode of storm and wrath,
With discord looming as an aftermath.
Then I recall a day when from a pier
I saw out on the sea a fishing weir
Limned quite distinctly, sturdily and clear.
It lay across the harbor blocking quite
The little boats which plied that course by right.
What foolish hands had raised it in the night?
A native islander was walking near,
Who smiled when I asked, "How came that new-built weir?"
"Why, that's mirage—it's no more there than here!"
And so, when prospects puzzle me or bear
An aspect menacing, I shed all care,
Remembering the weir that was not there.
Assured of Love as Principle, I pause
To ponder each effect: Is Love its cause?
And see all fade that contradicts Love's laws.
