Wert thou not weaned from laughter long ago.
Of suns and worlds I’ve nought to say,
I only see how men must fret their lives away.
The little god o’ the world jogs and jogs on, the same
As when from ruddy clay he took his name;
And, sooth to say, remains a riddle, just
As much as when you shaped him from the dust.
Perhaps a little better he had thriven,
Had he not got the show of glimmering light from heaven:
He calls it reason, and it makes him free