A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
Nothing can match the wonderment that comes from staring up into the star-filled canopy above and realizing that you are a part of that creation.
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