What is the reason, or the need,
What harlequin began,
What silly season saw sewn the solitary seed
Of this that I am: A Man?
I am as sure as I stand here,
That I do nothing much,
To be impressed by what is mere
To some creative touch,
But can you dream a more acute reality
Than when the Everlasting Loon
Made dust to speak of immortality
And walk upon the moon?
by Robert Hampton Burt