I Can Almost Believe

Sometimes, when I sit outside at sunset,
When I fold my hands in front of me 
And close my eyes, I can almost regret
That I believe in no divinity:

For then, the beauty of the sun,
Howling in the far sky of the west,
And the light's blood-golden run
Over the surface of the forest,

Seems to demand a creator or creatress,
A parent of the world and all things,
A mother or father, patron or patroness.
I wonder if such a one flies on distant wings

In the heart of space, looking on the stars,
And watching the sunset, from its heart,
Stretching ever-boundless from Earth to Mars;
I wonder if one hand worked all this art.

Sometimes, when I sit in the sunset,
There are times I can almost believe
That something that cannot forget
Watches me; I can almost grieve

That I cannot believe in Him or Her,
That I cannot believe in It or Them.
But the regret fades to a whisper
When I look out on this world-gem,

And think that the greater wonder,
That the thing worthy of greater faith,
Is that we were born from the thunder
Of gas and light, and that unscathed

We have endured all down the years,
To the point where I can sit and see
The sunset weep down the sky's tears
And grieve for the dead divinity.