I Was Sitting in Class, and

 ​I was sitting in class, and 
The teacher taught us to be humble,
Whereupon we lowered the shade
And we covered all the walls with scumble,

But no one taught us of the parsecs
Whose depths, whose scarlet nebulae,
Whose breathless black, filled
With empty, frothing energy

Or of the cilia of throbbing
Eukaryotic cells, or pulsing
Stars, pregnant with their rays,
Or seahorse fathers, their convulsing

Bellies, spilling clouds of eggs,
These mere wisps, these streaks,
These flecks, these hints, 
These whispers of impossible peaks,

We learn to live the lives
Of slaves, dragging ourselves
Through repetitious streets,
Throwing our hats on worm-ridden shelves.

First teach me of greatness so
Fantastic that it fills
Me with a faithful map,
That it streaks the hills

With the courses of the spring
Rills, on which the sun
Glints, with the moss moist,
Where the newly freed brooks run,

Then I will be humble, because 
That is how great you are
Because if the million galaxies
Could all be a single star,

Blazing, massive, gold or
Red, blue, pulverizing, raging fire,
More magnificent than any
Mind could grasp, more than an empire

Of all but infinite extent,
Oh they are just the foam 
Frothing on the surface of the creek,
And you are more than world and more than home.