Mother, among the dustbins and the manure I feel the measure of my humanity, an allure As of the presence of God, I am sure In the dustbins, in the manure, in the cat at play, Is the presence of God, in a sure way He moves there. Mother, what do you say? I too have felt the presence of God in the broom I hold, in the cobwebs in the room, But most of all in the silence of the tomb. Ah! but that thought that informs the hope of our kind Is but an empty thing, what lies behind? -- Naught but the vanity of a protesting mind That would not die. This is the thought that bounces Within a conceited head and trounces Inquiry. Man is most frivolous when he pronounces. Well Mother, I shall continue to think as I do, And I think you would be wise to do so too, Can you question the folly of man in the creation of God? Who are you?