On asking the philosophers,
What is the sun?, we get in answer,
An angel perched; a heap of furze
Some god has set ablaze; a burning
Iron that melts from sword to plow
To spearhead with the seasons’ turning.
And some wise soul guffaws at them
Or, condescending, calls it “poetry”
To disbelieve but not condemn.
Thus does the minute judge the hour,
Dismissing that primordial vision
Of truth that reigns with personal power.