PHILIP "
A FLAT-TOPPED orb of water his,
Walled in with light-bright glass ; Wherethrough stares out two jet-black eyes At all that comes to pass.
I watch ; he swims : and riddle it is To estimate his size.
As inch by inch he fins away The larger he appears ; But, vanishing at his world's end, Smalls swiftly as he nears : Great Men, the lesser all agree, Suffer from like propinquity.
But great, or small, like Philip swim In shallow waters, clear or dim ; And few are faithfully aware Of him who scatters ants' eggs there ; Yet all-0 Universel—poor souls, Incarcerate stay in finite bowls ; Whose stubborn confines are, alas, Seldom indeed of flawless glass.
What Truth, then—from the vast beyond—
Is theirs in so confined a pond, Concerning space, or space-plus-time, Or metaphysics more sublime, Eludes, alas, as cramped a rhyme.
WALTER DE LA MARE.
Previous page
