Confession

OH, we, your people, are so small
We dig the burrow, build the wall
To shield us from the sparrow’s fall —
And in our prison so distrust
The clean suggestion of the dust
We guard the hangman, hang the just.

We tie our faith to little things:
Old cups and teapots, worlds and kings.
We anchor ships with linen strings.
And, faint of hope, dare not forsake
The three-lane boulevard to take
The wild road through the marshy brake.