The expression of the sensed conveys delight.

There’s nothing on this page until I write
A word and then another word  and more:
The sentences that bring me my delight

No sense is quite as needed as our sight
Moral blindness is by most deplored.
There’s infinity upon this page I write

I  have pondered in the early  winter nights,
Whether there are senses we ignore.
The expression of the sensed conveys delight.

Could there be, unseen,  a different light
We might see by if we sought its door?
There’s  blankness on this page until I write

The possible encounter,  through a rite,
With God whom we and angels must adore.
My senses then  might bring me grace and light

In the soul, oh, deep within that core,
Who shall, patient, find the unknown door?
There’s an opening upon this page l write.
Can other words, on other tongues, invite?