Like insects in a silver web
Alarmed by the climbing spider-sun
The struggling stars grow still, have done
With life and time. Altair, Deneb,

Aldeberan, all dim and die;
A spun blue-silver floss of light
Cocoons the world from outer night
And makes prison of the sky.

And so men make their worlds, of words,
Of people, power, or painters' dreams;
Shut infinite, far-off hopeless gleams
Of truth out - blithe as singing birds.