This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.
For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.
Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.