Like baby priests the birdlings screech 
With mouths agape their hungry prayer,
A dissonant hymn hearts to breach
From altar nests rise voices of despair.

Like a pilgrim lost the furry feline 
With its rites of bite and scratch,
Mewling and scouting as an orphan
Its temple of repose in a downy perch.

But on an earth-cradle we helpless wait
Through the whirl of the solar rounds,
By aspiration withered yet an infant,
A bawling and wailing our only prayers.

Oh, by the million voices that seek Thy solace
Do not, O Grace, weigh our feeble penances.