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Poems

By Alfred Domett
  
  

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V.

But look again across the spangled steep
And tell us where the Earth thou callest thine?—
Left far behind and lost in crowded space—
Invisible!—But take yon little speck—
Hardly discerned amid the myriad lights
Profuse along the Heavens; what must be
The mites that crawl upon its surface when
Itself is but a point?—Oh is there found
Among them Pride, and big undoubting sense
Of Dignity, and Confidence disturbed

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By no misgiving? Strive they to be known?
Oh toil its habitants to gain respect
And adoration on that little mote?
Do they with impotent endeavour strain
To force their fame throughout that tiny speck,
That single grain of sand upon a shore
Boundless far more than Ocean's—all composed
Of atoms each as worthy as itself?—