I am nearly fifty. My eyes, always weak,
now fail me far and near. Is that a tick,
      small as a pepper-grinding? Over there,
      still at the field's border: bush or deer?

Author of symmetry, grant (as I grope
again for my other pair of glasses) hope
      when I am hopeless; light, in the fearful dark;
      and scale, to know the fixed star from the breaking spark.