* * *

The bee knows, and the eel’s cold ganglia burn,

And the sad head lifting to the long return,

Through brumal deeps, in the great unsolsticed coil,

Carries its knowledge, navigator without star,

And under the stars, pure in its clamorous toil,

The goose hoots north, where the starlit marshes are.

The salmon heaves at the fall, and, wanderer, you

Heave at the great fall of Time….