For this earth gently rolling
fair, the sun-burned hills and
hollows there: from Trinidad
to Bougainville, for mankind searching
still for you; the seas, the trees,
the rivers all those greatnesses
where we are small; and quiet in
a little room, the memory
extending where no mind has
been; a cracked cup of cold
water, bread, the man, the child;
for the first small
snow; for failure; danger and
despairing tears; for fear, for
hate, for pain, for breath—for years.