Classic Poem

At six o'clock it was pitch-dark. It might have been after midnight in the city and no lamps lit along the streets.
He would have liked to hide in the city from that sky of stars.
Beside bushes and thin, leafless trees he walked upon the frozen clods and ruts.
There was no wind across that blackness of fields and lakes;
only the sound of his own feet knocking on the road.
There the stars were poured, and there scattered. He thought,
The symmetry in growth and life on earth, our sense of order, is not controlling in the universe.