In Man's Mountain

Poemata LXXVI

Rock dove, visitor / inured to the street’s clatter / watches, but knows not.

City, mountain men for dwelling made by hand
Stone, by art so raised;  girded about, left to stand
Home as rabbits have their dens in wooded hills
Otters in a stream;  sheep on the moor by the rills;

Home of more than man, this valley full of wind
Stream of crossing ways;  cavern with rock merely skinned
Stars at night must fill the sky upon its peak
Room it has for those:  Refuge above it they seek;

Fowl like these must rest upon the towers' height
Nest on barest rock;  loftiness keep them from sight
Seek and find such food as man has lately made
Trash as treasure then;  though to consume is forbade;

Time may come when man's own Servant makes it all
Man a pigeon too;  What other name may we call?
Dwelling in a mountain he cannot create --
End is like the start:  Hour is now very late;

Running down, the things which make for man's delight
Know not how they work;  Objects of saddest despite
Man's own Servant never made himself, and so
In his great success;  back to the caves he must go.