On the heidy bield o the hill,
Sib tae the glaissy starns,
Catchin their shine in yer haun
(Thon brukken spars o Infinity)
Ye staun, fishin the lift
For the eident meen:
An ant, assumin a mantle o micht,
Lochans blink, cats' een In the windy derk,
An Icarus-thocht taks flicht;
The mineer o the warld
Seen frae the faddomless void,
O near-as-can-be's-Eternity
Is Lilliput, gawpin at Gulliver,
A giant braith
In a fug o littleness.
Whaur aa's uncertainty
An Time is a sang
In the throat o the corrie's yawnin.

Man, ye cud rowe hale knowes,
Like bools,
Ding the sun frae the clouds,
A stottin baa
In heelstergowdie lan'.

Far, far, doon
Daith watches cannily.
I maun creep back,
Clay-fittit, intil the cauld yird.
In the swaith o the lad
Wi the hoary powe,
The sickle smile,
An the noiseless wird.

Suggested by “The Third Day of Creation”, the closed wings of The Garden of Earthly Delights triptych, by Hieronymus Bosch.