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 lanes, 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.
Charles Henry Madge (1912-1996)