Science, that simple saint, cannot be bothered br Figuring what anything is for: br Enough for her devotions that things are br And can be contemplated soon as gathered. br br She knows how every living thing was fathered, br She calculates the climate of each star, br She counts the fish at sea, but cannot care br Why any one of them exists, fish, fire or feathered. br br Why should she? Her religion is to tell br By rote her rosary of perfect answers. br Metaphysics she can leave to man: br She never wakes at night in heaven or hell br br Staring at darkness. In her holy cell br There is no darkness ever: the pure candle br Burns, the beads drop briskly from her hand. br br Who dares to offer Her the curled sea shell! br She will not touch it!--knows the world she sees br Is all the world there is! Her faith is perfect! br br And still he offers the sea shell . . .