It was my great pain

That being small I still knew

What greatness was?

And how to say it’

And how to give it life.

I took pebbles a little

At a time

From that mountain in the mind,

And I threw them

One

By

One

Into him….

Into his soul…

Until

They dammed up every crack and stream

Of littleness,

And the man in him

Became deeper  and

Deeper

Until

It could be pent up no longer,

And B U R S T out.

O God

It bore him past me like a torrent

Past a weeping boy.

And soon I was a weeping little boy

Looking for some place else to throw my pebbles.

  Harold Buckley
June 1972