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The sun by's nature stretches out a blind force
And beauty's metric births from such source
Fined in every coarse
Whole in every part.

In all craft some piece may turn an art
And all terminations be but a start,
As in the carapace stirs a faint heart
Scanting nothing but a matrix to find,

That truth has her glances, mendacity blind
And in all seeming difference lies a weft in kind,
And too that summation may be but the rind.
From the first starry spray to a mind that looks back

Till finally it contemplates hitting the sack.