Like a hungry babe suckles for its mother's teat,
Or the moon, which sanctions the stir of Poseidon's waters,
Has its clutch on the soul of man, God's most enfeebled work.
For man, in himself, is ceaseless reliant
On the association with fellow mind and make.
Whether it charges the spirit in ardour extended,
Or strikes, a bolt of sheer belittlement, crushing the core - conductive.
He will endlessly wander, seeking the warmth of connection,
With instinctual vehemence and sagacity omit,
For there is nothing but the need.