The Stars Poem by Arthur Henry Adams

THE terrible tranquillity of space!
My soul shrinks back in sudden doubt. I fear
The myriad eyes that through the ether peer,
And chill the arrogance that dared to trace
The grave enigma of the cosmic face.
Yet through the soundless night a voice austere—
“We that you deem afar are small and near;
With lowly things and humble we have place;
We are but smoke that from a burnt Past rears;
The idle spray God's prow flings in its sweep
Through wider waters; the mere dust that curls
From his vast chariot-wheels as on He whirls;
The futile sparks that from His anvil leap;
Or drifting seeds, pregnant of larger spheres.”