A star by world-connivance seems part of the hill.
A tree not by mere folly stands up creature-like.
Such painstaking acts of intelligence widely accost.
It is a compliment to nature to perceive them.
The mind is already full, near overflowing.
It is no mean compliment to stop and smile
And verse such imperfections perfectwise.

Lyricism has had humane use in time:
To allow the bragging population to recover
From the exertion of behaving intelligently—
By commending the intelligence
Of nature's stupid also prone to think,
Though these have only leaves for minds, or less.

You are, however, no longer a population.
If you are tired—good. This is a charm against
The brisk philosophies that conjure wisdoms
Satisfying to the ambition of time
To hold up its head among other times, other wisdoms.

You are, however, no longer an unknown number.
The calculation is completed, there now remains but
The copying of the determined selves
Into a closed gazette of memories
Where in the chary happiness of the dead
You lay you down, to think no more again.

If you are tired—good. Tiredness is to pray to death,
That it shall think for you when speechlessness
Tells how you lie so full of understanding each,
Sorry of life in his own grave of mind each.