8

Glory by the infant sounded
Hidden in the nest from hawks
Circling 'neath the pregnant pearl,
The moon, and broad-cast stars,
Fashioned as if loving hands
Laid and layered common grit.

What is man but a grain of it?
Who would even think of him
Let alone care for his sons?

Yet on his feet he wears the world,
An honour only slightly less
A glory than the crown of stars,
His eyes, the moving wheel and pinion
That rules what swims and prances round
And gives a name to his dominion.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998