Paracelsus

Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise
From outward things, whate’er you may believe.
There is an inmost centre in us all,
Where truth abides in fulness; and around
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in,
This perfect, clear perception–which is truth.
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh
Binds it, and makes all error: and, to know
Rather consists in opening out a way
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape,
Than in effecting entry for a light
Supposed to be without.

“Paracelsus,” by Robert Browning, 1835



Some lines along which I’ve been thinking about, to no avail, this past week or so. Perhaps because it’s just gunkered ’round in that ol’ baffling, perverting carnal mesh.