The love we have for mother, father, sister

Is inculpatory evidence of mere humanity

And enables us to see, half-way,

Incompletely,

The merest movement of the moon

Will shift the seal that hides the veil

That moves us all to the tempest's sail

And storm and thunder-struck avail

Across the fields of corn and gold

Until the years, when growing old,

We walk along the meekest streets

And look for nothing, except our feet.