An Acknowledgement of Helplessness

We humans are a haughty race, perhaps,

And we would change the earth to suit our feet;

Build ever-rising homes where thunder claps,

Then pull them down to heal the ground beneath—

In winter’s cold a falsèd summer steps

And summer made to welcome winter sleet;

We want the nearest routes in our maps

But longer is the time we want to live:

And so we shape the world, comforting those

Who play at God over these Eden lands,

Yet in the end—as each one sadly knows—

Nature shall be our shapers: our hands,

Our hearts grow old, and even the littlest birds

We cannot stop from flying with our words.

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