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Poem	I towered far, and lo! I stood within The presence of the Lord Most High, Sent thither by the sons of earth, to win Some answer to their cry. --"The Earth, say'st thou? The Human race? By Me created? Sad its lot? Nay: I have no remembrance of such place: Such world I fashioned not." - --"O Lord, forgive me when I say Thou spak'st the word, and mad'st it all." - "The Earth of men--let me bethink me . . . Yea! I dimly do recall "Some tiny sphere I built long back (Mid millions of such shapes of mine) So named . . . It perished, surely--not a wrack Remaining, or a sign? "It lost my interest from the first, My aims therefor succeeding ill; Haply it died of doing as it durst?" - "Lord, it existeth still." - "Dark, then, its life! For not a cry Of aught it bears do I now hear; Of its own act the threads were snapt whereby Its plaints had reached mine ear. "It used to ask for gifts of good, Till came its severance self-entailed, When sudden silence on that side ensued, And has till now prevailed. "All other orbs have kept in touch; Their voicings reach me speedily: Thy people took upon them overmuch In sundering them from me! "And it is strange--though sad enough - Earth's race should think that one whose call Frames, daily, shining spheres of flawless stuff Must heed their tainted ball! . . . "But say'st thou 'tis by pangs distraught, And strife, and silent suffering? - Deep grieved am I that injury should be wrought Even on so poor a thing! "Thou should'st have learnt that Not to Mend For Me could mean but Not to Know: Hence, Messengers! and straightway put an end To what men undergo." . . . Homing at dawn, I thought to see One of the Messengers standing by. - Oh, childish thought! . . . Yet oft it comes to me When trouble hovers nigh.
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