EARTH THE BURDEN-BEARER
Tell how deep is thy foundation,
What does it rest upon?
Who laid the bed whereon it rests,
How long eíer it was done?
Figuring by manís estimate,
Manís thoughts must halt and rightly so,
This knowledge is not his.
For limited always is he
Though he accepts it not,
For pride and arrogance him blind
Which keep him in a slot.
When noble man takes up his rule
And inch by inch extends,
The depths is far beyond his tool,
He scarcely apprehends,
At this conclusion I arrive
Because the load earth bears
So ponderable is, and huge,
Yet it gives him some cheers.
The countless vines and shrubbery
And running twigs attest
The nature of Earthís unseen-bed
The whereupon to rest.
And still more added weight I see
From rocks and minerals,
One rock so lone, lost in the sky,
Has not eíen heard manís calls,
Sung from his artificial notes,
This lone rock Everest;
Its depths may even greater be
Than height above its crest.
The mountain ranges everywhere
Thee as their cradle use
To nestle deeper down in thee,
Without the least excuse.
And how their seen and unseen forms
Together put may weigh?
These rocks have even baffled him,
And shall throughout his day.
The mighty rivers make their bed
On thee---Mother of all,
With not one word of any plaint,
Thouírt always at their call.
Here shinest best, dear Mother Earth,
And rare example sets;
For others who may motherís be,
Earth has here no regrets.
The bed on which the earth lies firm
Is unseen to manís ken,
Gropes he about with his poor mind
When he takes up his pen
To write with meaning of its form,
And of the expanse too;
Material of thy makeup,
His baffled thoughts eschew.
Greatest asset possesses he
In his most robust mind,
Which stretches far beyond himself,
Sometimes still leaves him blind.
So limited physically
As here about he moves,
In cycles only all his days,
For his life all this proves.
His guesses are more numerous
Than facts he has produced;
Researches go on silently,
Most of the times reduced.
The myriad host of living things
Which into billions run
Of man and beast and creeping twigs
Prove this under the sun.
Find these a haven on thy breast
Whether so great or small,
And resting places in thyself
Hast thou prepared for all.
And when outrun each one its course,
Then layest down to die;
Here Mother-Hood in grandeur shines,
No Mother with thee vie.
Obadiah Anderson Ramsay_ June 07, 1936