Why sound this sound of a primeval toil,
And this, the toil’s old murder in our bones?
Retrieved in segments of maternal soil,
Become that marvel of a world in tones?
This clay of ours – in rounds we do not reach,
In lineaments we did not mean to rake –
Returns us to a wave of wordless speech
And flourishes in firmaments, in wake
Of resonance that may somehow surmise
A potter’s hand, resplendent in her day,
Makes failings of a helpless night devise
A gentle measure for a gentler way.
Is what we stake – that trifle – greatly ours?
What spawn of strings conceived a span of stars?