The Universe is but the Thing of things,
The things but balls all going round in rings,
Some of them mighty huge, some mighty tiny,
All of them radiant and mighty shiny.

They mean to tell us all was rolling blind
Till accidentally it hit on mind
In an albino monkey in a jungle
And even then it had to grope and bungle

Till Darwin came to earth upon a year
To show the evolution how to steer.
They mean to tell us, though, the Omnibus
Had no real purpose till it got to us.

Don’t you believe it. At the very worst
It must have had the purpose from the first
To produce purpose as the fitter bred:
We were just purpose coming to a head.

Whose purpose was it? His or Hers or Its?
Let’s leave that to the scientific wits.
Grant me intention, purpose, and design —
That’s near enough for me to the Divine.

And yet for all this help of head and brain
How happily instinctive we remain,
Our best guide upward further to the light,
Passionate preference such as love at sight.
— Robert Frost, Accidentally on Purpose

A hard frost last night had me thinking about Mr. Frost, which had me looking through some poems and quotes, that delivered this delightful nugget. The poem above was published in the March 1961 edition of The Atlantic, well before my time on earth began. But the universe opens up for those who seek more, or at the very least for those who have a subscription to a magazine that offers its entire archive online simply for the asking. We ought to support independent voices for all they offer, not just in complicated times such as these. As we are reminded of when chaos rules, consistency matters a great deal in our march through a great life.

I spent entirely too much time ignoring poetry as a younger man. I was simply too busy with clever pursuits—or maybe foolish pursuits, it hardly matters. It was when I began writing every day when I was instinctively drawn to poetry. Call it an aspiration for brevity, or a delight in the dance of words, or simply a logical turn towards that which awes. Whatever it is, I saw what I’d been missing and decided to miss as little as possible.

What is our purpose? We spend too much time dwelling on it, and not nearly enough time pursuing it. Sure, we ought to think about the heading of the compass, but we must set the sails and get moving before the wind dies and we’re left adrift on a cold, dark sea. Sure, that’s a well-worn analogy tossed deliberately into the mix, but heck, what are analogies for but to use in the most obvious moments?

That digression aside, the question lingers about intention, purpose and design. Poetry prompts such questions, just as art and prose and science do. Humans reaching for some greater truth than what to should have for lunch today naturally evolves over time to form some philosophical core that snowballs into something approaching sublime.

We might look around and see that the majority isn’t exactly inspiring awe, they’re simply following the easiest path to get through their days. We all fall into that trap now and then, we just can’t allow it to become habitual. Reaching towards our greatest potential is also habitual. It demands that we transcend the limitations of self and strive for a level of perfection and beauty far beyond the limits of our lifetime. That’s on each of us in our time.