Life Has Come From No Scriptwriter's Lot

Life has come from no scriptwriter’s lot, Nor from any grand design Living things, from dead Matter wrought, The sole eternal, Time By millennia of thoughtless toil, By lost, imperfect forms, Mankind has found the splendid Earth So presently adorned The legion that has lived, and perished Since this fertile sphere began Have given rise through strife and death To the phenomena of man Who labors a strange and brutish life And in futility dissolves While the Earth, round the hellish Sun Ceaselessly revolves O, how ignorant is this view of Being In this vision we scarcely see In what crevasse crept the silent hand Of Divinity