Classic Poem

I stand here like the sun
And look down on this vast metropolis
Where the small emmets run;
I almost think it is
The same sun that looks down
On London now or any other English town.

Yet I know well enough
That clapping dove is no dove but a culver
And under the sheen bough
Of-no, not holly, hulver,
These heavy cows that lurch
Call with a hollow bell to some lost pagan church.

But matters it so much
If like those kissing brimstone butterflies
We too a moment touch,
And whither each one flies
We do not know nor whence;
Just so to touch our first and final prescience?