The little lives of earth and form, br Of finding food, and keeping warm, br Are not like ours, and yet br A kinship lingers nonetheless: br We hanker for the homeliness br Of den, and hole, and set. br br And this identity we feel br - Perhaps not right, perhaps not real - br Will link us constantly; br I see the rock, the clay, the chalk, br The flattened grass, the swaying stalk, br And it is you I see.