by Charles Madge
The sun, of whose terrain we creatures are,
Is the director of all human love,
Unit of time, and circle round the earth.
And we are the commotion born of love
And slanted rays of that illustrious star,
Peregrine of the crowded fields of birth,
The crowded lane, the market and the tower.
Like sight in pictures, real at remove,
Such is our motion on dimensional earth.
Down by the river, where the ragged are,
Continuous the cries and noise of birth,
While to the muddy edge dark fishes move,
And over all, like death, or sloping hill,
Is nature, which is larger and more still.
Thanks, Reya, for inviting me!