M ISERERE

Wind , rain, and thunder last night wildly intoned
A mighty miserere to the skies.
Under a surge of sound the forest moaned
And swayed and crossed itself, penitent-wise.
Its leafy limbs reached out, or clutched and listened,
As still things seem to do, for the next crash.
Terribly then followed the lightning's lash,
And the wet earth, scourged with pallor, glistened.

Infinite seemed the sound along the earth;
And yet beyond lay interstellar space,
To which such spasms are but as the mirth
And buzz of a fly's wing — leaving no trace.
Is there no final measure then at all
For greatness? Are our strivings, too, as small?