In Prison

I cried out for the pain of man,
     I cried out for my bitter wrath
     Against the hopeless life that ran
     For ever in a circling path
     From death to death since all began;
     Till on a summer night
     I lost my way in the pale starlight
     And saw our planet, far and small,
     Through endless depths of nothing fall
     A lonely pin-prick spark of light,
     Upon the wide, enfolding night,
     With leagues on leagues of stars above it,
     And powdered dust of stars below—
     Dead things that neither hate nor love it
     Not even their own loveliness can know,
     Being but cosmic dust and dead.
     And if some tears be shed,
     Some evil God have power,
     Some crown of sorrow sit
     Upon a little world for a little hour—
     Who shall remember? Who shall care for it?