Then don’t forget the first man that he healed. There’s deep significance in this, my son, That first of all he’d take an unclean spirit And cast it out. Then second was my mother Cured of her fever, just as you might say: Be rid of madness, things that tear and plague, Then cool you of the fever of vain life. But don’t forget to write how he would say “Tell no man of this,” say that and no more. Though I may think he said it lest the crowds That followed him would take his strength for healing, And leave no strength for words, let be and write “Tell no man of this” simply. For you see These madmen quieted, these lepers cleaned Had soon to die, all now are dead, perhaps. And with them ends their good. But what he said Remains for generations yet to come, with power To heal and heal. My son, preserve your notes, Of what I’ve told you, even above your life. Make many copies lest one script be lost. I shall not to another tell it all As I have told it you. But as for me What merit have I that I saw and said “Thou art the Christ?” One sees the thing he sees. That is a matter of the eye--behold What is the eye? Is there an Eye Power which Produces eyes, a primal source of seeing, An ocean of beholding, as the ocean Makes rivers, streams and pools, so does this Power Make eyes? You take an egg and keep it warm About a day, then break the shell and look: You’ll find dark spots on either side of what Will be the head in time, these will be eyes In season, but just now they cannot see, Although the Eye Power back of them can see Both what they are and how to make them eyes By giving them its quality and strength. And all the time while these dark spots emerge From yolk to eyes, this Rome is here no less, This moon, these stars, this wonder! Take a child It stares at flowers and tears them, or again It claws the whiteness of its mother’s breast, Sees nothing but the things beneath its nose. The world around it lies here to be seen, And will be seen from boyhood on to age In different guises, aspects, richnesses According to the man, for every man Sees different from his fellow. What’s an eye? I say not what’s an eye, but what is here For eyes to see? What wonders in that sky Beyond my eye! What living things concealed Beneath my feet in grass or moss or slime, As small to crickets as they are to us! For Nero at the Circus holds a ruby Before his eye to give his eye more sight To see the games and tortures. So I say There was no merit in me when I said “Thou art the Christ.”