In quest of mystical experience,
I knelt in darkness St. Enedoch,
I visit our local Holy Well,
Whereto the native Cornish still resort,
For cures for whooping cough, and drop bent pins,
Into its peaty water... Not a sign,
No mystical experience was vouchsafed:
The maidenhair just trembled in the wind,
And everything looked as it always looked...
But somewhere, somewhere underneath the dunes,
Somewhere among the cairns or in the caves,
The Celtic saints would come to me, the ledge
Of time we walk on, like a thin cliff-path,
High in the mist, would show the precipice.
By John Betjeman- Posted by Scott
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