Little being moved,
at last, give thanks.
One doesn’t want
always to be bound
to change.
And whether by weathers
(the ins and outs of them)
or by bloody bulldozer
(who lullabied that baby?)—
whether by nature’s nature
or your own (O man, you draw
a fine damn line!)—it hurts to be
at a mercy, or a wit’s end. (Few believe
the wit’s end hurts—or any part of it, for that
sad matter. Utter folly, once
such errors have begun,
the big being moved
most of all, after all,
by the littlest one.)