We May Not Climb the Heavenly Steeps by John Greenleaf Whittier

Above a world of imaginary perfection
Within the same world sometimes given as a suggestion
around us that which we see with our eyes
or hearts or out-stretched hands depending

Together a life destitute sodden ill-begotten
or hop-scotch and comfort southern?

Alone a temple or cranium of facts and phone
pre-occupied or the fall of Rome?

Always connected though without hearing the bells ring
birds and ballistics simultaneous happenings
rat-trappings and polities clappings
but what granite do you build on when the slap-stick up
cuts the last strings?