He can’t take in the world, it is too big.
So what he knows is small, and seen close up;
It’s one spring morning on a blade of grass,
It’s early sunlight glimmer on the lake.
The facts he’s heard, but cannot understand:
An ancient language, written there in stone.
Instead, he sees the curve of nature’s edge,
The pictures that it frames when he’s alone.
A deaf man in a hall of symphonies,
A blind man in a gallery of art,
He misses more than he will ever see,
He catches bends, but cannot catch the break —
Close up, he stops to wonder, all the same:
Why he’s so unaware of everything