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The little lives of earth and form,
Of finding food, and keeping warm,
     Are not like ours, and yet
A kinship lingers nonetheless:
We hanker for the homeliness
     Of den, and hole, and set.

And this identity we feel
- Perhaps not right, perhaps not real -
     Will link us constantly;
I see the rock, the clay, the chalk,
The flattened grass, the swaying stalk,
     And it is you I see.

Added: 24 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 21 Nov 2009 3:36 PM | Viewed: 4086 times

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