What gift it is to ruminate,
On all the ages in the soil,
Their books in shelves so near,
My burning curiosities placate,
Upon the abstract, the vast, the royal,
First eternal consolation to the gadgets of the year.

Released unto the cityscape,
I am so small at large,
And join the bustle floating through,
If floating were my measured steps,
I am so small at large,
The clatter louder, louder still,
Through tunnels swallow space between,
I am so small at large,
And find a path through cityscapes,
To where I set to be.