And here the hermit sat, and told his beads, <br />And stroked his flowing locks, red as the fire, <br />Summed up his tale of moon and sun and star; <br />'How blest are we,' he deemed, 'who so comprise <br />The essence of the whole, and of ourselves, <br />As in a Venice flask of lucent shape, <br />Ornate of gilt Arabic, and inscribed <br />With Suras from Time's Koran, live and pray, <br />More than half grateful for the glittering prize, <br />Human existence! If I note my powers, <br />So poor and frail a toy, the insect's prey, <br />Itched by a berry, festered by a plum, <br />The very air infecting my thin frame <br />With its malarial trick, whom every day <br />Rushes upon and hustles to the grave, <br />Yet raised by the great love that broods o'er all <br />Responsive, to a height beyond all thought.' <br />He ended as the nightly prayer and fast <br />Summoned him inward. But I sat and heard <br />The night-hawks rip the air above my head, <br />Till midnight, o'er the warm, dry, dewless rocks; <br />And saw the blazing dog-star droop his fire, <br />And the low comet, trailing to the south, <br />Bend his reverted gaze, and leave us free.<br /><br />William Ellery Channing<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hillside-cot/
