I towered far, and lo!  I stood within

   The presence of the Lord Most High,

Sent thither by the sons of earth, to win

      Some answer to their cry.

   —“The Earth, say’st thou?  The Human race?

   By Me created?  Sad its lot?

Nay: I have no remembrance of such place:

      Such world I fashioned not.”—

   —“O Lord, forgive me when I say

   Thou spak’st the word, and mad’st it all.”—

“The Earth of men—let me bethink me . . . Yea!

      I dimly do recall

   “Some tiny sphere I built long back

   (Mid millions of such shapes of mine)

So named . . . It perished, surely—not a wrack

      Remaining, or a sign?

   “It lost my interest from the first,

   My aims therefor succeeding ill;

Haply it died of doing as it durst?”—

      “Lord, it existeth still.”—

   “Dark, then, its life!  For not a cry

   Of aught it bears do I now hear;

Of its own act the threads were snapt whereby

      Its plaints had reached mine ear.

   “It used to ask for gifts of good,

   Till came its severance self-entailed,

When sudden silence on that side ensued,

      And has till now prevailed.

   “All other orbs have kept in touch;

   Their voicings reach me speedily:

Thy people took upon them overmuch

      In sundering them from me!

   “And it is strange—though sad enough—

   Earth’s race should think that one whose call

Frames, daily, shining spheres of flawless stuff

      Must heed their tainted ball! . . .

   “But say’st thou ’tis by pangs distraught,

   And strife, and silent suffering?—

Deep grieved am I that injury should be wrought

      Even on so poor a thing!

   “Thou should’st have learnt that Not to Mend

   For Me could mean but Not to Know:

Hence, Messengers! and straightway put an end

      To what men undergo.” . . .

   Homing at dawn, I thought to see

   One of the Messengers standing by.

—Oh, childish thought! . . . Yet oft it comes to me

      When trouble hovers nigh.