Vast is the chasm, and in the deep below
Silence has fallen asleep beneath its tree;
Yet we, above the stark declivity,
Still hear the hush of winds we do not know;
For, in the vague that covers all, the slow
Trail of the air, like floating hair flung free,
Draws with the moving earth; which far stars see
As some titanic head swayed to and fro.

O pigmy man, so like a thistleseed,
Blown hitherward from distant space! O note
In an eternal wind! O little float
On time’s scarce entered sea, art thou the crown
Of all immensity? Nay, wouldst thou read
Thy pleas, o’er this dark brink look down, look down!