  Alone with these my poems, when night is still, Earth seems but a speck of fluttering dust, Moth-like, in a waste of eternity. Alone with these symbols of human thought, All our measureless system of whirling worlds Seems itself a symbol, a chance phrase In a poem wrought by the hand of a brooding god, Where we ourselves are less than commas and dots. And had he smeared out with careless thumb All life, from its first birth in the waters To the ultimate dissolution of stars and suns, He had made no more than an ill-timed caesura. Alone with these my poems, when night is still, I am less than a speck of dust on the wing of a moth Fluttering in a waste of eternity. |
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