It Is Only A Little Planet, But

God Is A Lion That Comes In The Night. God Is A Hawk Gliding Among The Stars-- If All The Stars And The Earth, And The Living Flesh Of The Night That Flows In Between Them, And Whatever Is Beyond Them Were That One Bird. He Has A Bloody Beak And Harsh Talons, He Pounces And Tears.

When The Sun Shouts And People Abound One Thinks There Were The Ages Of Stone And The Age Of Bronze And The Iron Age; Iron The Unstable Metal; Steel Made Of Iron, Unstable As His Mother; The Tow-ered-up Cities Will Be Stains Of Rust On Mounds Of Plaster. Roots Will Not Pierce The Heaps For A Time, Kind Rains Will Cure Them, Then Nothing Will Remain Of The Iron Age And All These People But A Thigh-bone Or So, A Poem Stuck In The World's Thought, Splinters Of Glass In The Rubbish Dumps, A Concrete Dam Far Off In The Mountain.

Pleasure Is The Carrot Dangled To Lead The Ass To Market; Or The Precipice.

It Is Only A Little Planet, But How Beautiful It Is.

Know That However Ugly The Parts Appear The Whole Remains Beautiful.