A thought.it reads:
Do they live on, all these strange ones
Beyond the reach of the novel sea
In between the cracks of plurality
Mismatched and rare and spare and dun --?
Every one to those with open hands
A plague upon their smoothed out lands
Weeds is perhaps the image forcalled
What must needs then be considered true
Does the man of all thus think it through;
And become sentimental or appalled
A ruin! Covered in vines and tressed
About with flowers and with moss dressed?
In each thing is borne its seed of death
Which just means a nature underlies
That which changes, which grows or dies
Because there are many things and lest
Time should cease, and horizons close
There may be many or few of those;
But each of these things within as well
Seems to contain the same conceit
To find its own designs complete
Only when by stroke or spell
All is laid flat before its might
Does it too then proceed to night --?
Wise is the one who sees this truth
And moves slowly, loath to touch a fence
Knowing sea and stream's sure recompense
For he who shows them too much ruth
He forgets the terror of ten thousand suns --
As they live on, all these strange ones.