The singing beneath our feet

The forest floor is covered with dead matter. But this dead matter teems, thrums with life, an undulant carpet uplifting a cathedral of trees. What then death? A laughable impossibility, Alfred Tennyson wrote.

Unmasked

Heaven is not won, unless dropping the seed-shell of my public face is winning. Tennyson emerged from one of his trances to say that the loss of personality is the only true life.