 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
58
MAN.
Thou little-great, great-little! thou mere flyUpon Time's wheel, yet whose circumference
And motions thou canst measure; trace from whence
And when yon planet comes—where in the sky
'Twill, like a diamond-point, first meet the eye
Of Science; of eclipses, ages hence,
Point time and place; thy own intelligence
Forth-setting as God's works and constancy!
Would that thou could'st thyself concentric run,
In thy small orbit, steadfast with yon sphere;
Thy reason suffering no eclipse but one,
In His, to make it brighter reappear!
Thy passions trained to warm thee as yon sun,
Not scorch like fire, and prematurely sear!
| Stones from The Quarry | |