The wisp in my glass, on a clear winter’s night,
is home for a billion wee glimmers of light,
each crystal itself one faraway dream,
with faraway worlds surrounding its gleam.

And locked in the realm of each tiny sphere,
is all that is met through an eye or an ear;
Too, all that is felt by a hand or our love,
for we are but whits in the sea seen above.

Such scales immense make wonder abound,
and make a lone knee touch the cold ground.
For what is this man that he should be made,
to sing to The One whose breath heavens laid ?