Here is the solitude
Unknown to Stylites or Anthony;
A place of bleak illumination
Clean-stripped of clouds and dust,
Ultimate as the apogean moon;
Where codes and cults, philosophies and gods
Thin out and varnish on the waste and vast
Like smoke of fires gone cold
In nomad camps deserted yesterday.

Here is the infinite unveiled
In visions not of evil or of good;
And the night looks down on us
With only suns for eyes;
And knowledge is our delirium,
The bringer of new appearances,
The breeder of new apparitions.

What shall we do
For whom the heavens are throneless, and there is
No demon prince to supplicate and serve?
Shall we pray for succor to the rocks
Or beg the sea for aid?
The breath of prayer, the windiness of imploration,
Puffs not against the gale
Nor blows with it in power and violence
Beyond the failing of the owlet's cry.