The clouds look up to where we are,
We, upon our windblown tufts of sand,
Turning amid precariously hung oceans—
Puddle-ponds weakly echoing the true depths of a shoreless sky.
The old grey guardians must needs wonder at us,
Our strange conceptions of permanence and greatness—
We, who think ourselves unmovable, and therefore strong;
While they, the sky swimmers, are stirred, bound, and released
By the very hand of God.
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