“Do you fall in worship, you millions?
World, do you know your creator?
Seek him in the heavens
Above the stars must He dwell”
Can we yet in these odious times succumb?
give vocative voice to the curves of an urn
one immortally fashioned for an odeum
or a blithe spirit parting the night discern
such sweet celebration in a plain brown bird
addresssing a rose, no matter now how sick
sounds somewhat silly as a spoken word
obsolescent and obscure the ornate neoclassic
but hindsight of sophistication tempers praise
confines expression to the pleasure zone
the ode to joy becomes an ah appraised
and glory by the making of mankind outshone
O Lord we fall flat-earthed in millions like the leaves
when a backward glance at heaven could bring us to our knees