IF this little world to-night
Suddenly should fall through space
In a hissing, headlong flight,
Shrivelling from off its face,
As it falls into the sun,
In an instant every trace
Of the little crawling things—
Ants, philosophers, and lice,
Cattle, cockroaches, and kings,
Beggars, millionaires, and mice,
Men and maggots,—all as one
As it falls into the sun,—
Who can say but at the same
Instant from some planet far
A child may watch us and exclaim:
“See the pretty shooting star!”