Their Maker in the rags. If skies are vast,
So gems are tiny: who shall choose between?
Who reads the riddle of the Universe?
All words! Thus, from his rock-wrought peeking-point
Out speers the hermit. “See, the sun is dead!”
It shines elsewhere. You from your tiny perch,
The corner of the corner of the earth,
Itself a speck in solar life; the sun,
For all I know, a speck among the stars,
Themselves one corporate molecule of space!—