Very small our earth, I’m told — by those who weigh the sky; Our seven seas but shallow scrapes. To bathe a ball where angry apes. Breed gods consigned to die.
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Very young our race, I’m told — by those who relish age; Where infants dressed in men’s array. Spout lines of some unfinished play. Upon a pinprick stage.

Very foolish we,I’m told — by those more wise than I; The reckless need to know God’s faceOur one, redeeming, savage grace:This urge to wonder: ‘Why?’