Thou little shiny box which many days
Did entertain me on my lonely walks
Containing multitudes, whose random plays
Perplexed and pleased me. Now your silence mocks
Our feeble boasts that we can tame the gods
And pull from nothing sound and soul's repose.
That we are somehow raised above the clods
That crunch beneath our feet. There are those
Who place their faith and heart in the care
Of science and its servants, nothing more,
Who never seek signs in dreams. They err.
The dreams of science hold such little store
And when, sans warning, everything blinks out
How then are we to struggle with our doubt?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem