A needle, small as small can be, <br />In bulk and use surpasses me, <br />Nor is my purchase dear; <br />For little, and almost for nought <br />As many of my kind are bought <br />As days are in the year. <br /> <br />Yet though but little use we boast, <br />And are procured at little cost, <br />The labour is not light; <br />Nor few artificers it asks, <br />All skilful in their several tasks, <br />To fashion us aright, <br /> <br />One fuses metal o’er the fire, <br />A second draws it into wire, <br />The shears another plies; <br />Who clips in length the brazen thread <br />From him who, chafing every shred, <br />Gives all an equal size. <br /> <br />A fifth prepares, exact and round, <br />The knob with which it must be crown’d; <br />His follower makes it fast; <br />And with his mallet and his file <br />To shape the point, employs awhile <br />The seventh and the last. <br /> <br />Now, therefore, Œdipus! declare <br />What creature, wonderful, and rare, <br />A process that obtains <br />Its purpose with so much ado <br />At last produces!—tell me true, <br />And take me for your pains!<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-enigma-3/
