A.C. Moore Sonnet 1: Sight of the Eternal

How oft I seek transcendentalism.
To become entangled in the ethos,
Yet fall short of the fell mechanism?
Yes, how could I forget? It is pathos

Which calls to me. Her light spread out like wheat
to thresh, refulgent in great harmony.
My fellows think it cruel to leave the seat
Empty, and supplicate the surgeons fee

Be met. Though vacancy delivers one
From lies. It is holy smoke, up the flew.
Freedom from vanity of emotion.
My fellows think it cruel to leave them, too.

Apotheosis shall escape this earth.
But darkened skies forbid my reasoned mirth.