From the man of many talents (and many mazes), Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986).
The garden’s grillwork gate
opens with the ease of a page
in a much thumbed book,
and once inside, our eyes
have no need to dwell on objects
already fixed and exact in memory.
Here habits and minds and the private language
all families invent
are everyday things to me.
What necessity is there to speak
or pretend to be someone else?
The whole house knows me,
they’re aware of my worries and weakness.
This is the best that can happen–
what Heaven perhaps will grant us:
not to be wondered at or required to succeed
but simply to be let in
as part of an undeniable Reality,
like stones of the road, like trees.
(translated from the Spanish by Norman Thomas di Giovanni)