You think the world unique? I tell you,
If every second you picked up a pebble –
Every second, from now until your dotage –
And placed it in a pile,
You would not reach a tenth
Of the number of worlds
That congeal and rarefy in the void.

You call the world comely? I tell you,
All its jewels, which you prize so highly,
All its silver and its gold,
Are the rainbow sheen
Of sunlight on an oil-patch –
Taut, thin, purposeless – that roves
Over the roiling sea.