The Cosmic Hmm

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Of the unseen worlds I've thought to speak
To speak of what man has not seen
To speak of what yet has not been
Disclosed, If we supposed in a pique
Of fugue that even this or that planetary
And I do not mean here imaginary
World, hurled forth from the forge
Could ever be seen by earthly eyes?
Dion spoke of that which lies
Beyond that mind and matter gorge
And bridged by faith, but I speak
Of nothing so near as to keep
It as a shadow, no, but of that
Which though counted quite concrete
Is nonetheless, to be discrete
The Unknow, below, and so what
Can be known of it for tales
To tell and well the tongue fails
Or fails not! Ought I then consider
Long, long ago and far, far away
With the glibness of the teller say
A silken yarn as tight as a spider
Weaves? He believes we shall not know
Whether we few left in the herebelow
Before the books are all disclosed
Are but one of many so disposed
To thought? Or to ought, are composed
Of all unlike things at once, at once
What we are and are not, but cosmic runts
Left by our Lucy to feckless punts?
But so much of the worlds, for our race
Are beyond our reach in time and space
Having already plead their case
And gone, leaving not rock nor bone
And the stars hum a questioning tone
Are we or aren't we alone?

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