Instrument and Agent

In my eye I've no apple; every object
Enters in there with hands in pockets.
I welcome them all, just as they are,
Every one equal, none a stranger.

Yet in the short journey they make
To my skull's back, each takes a look
From another, or a gesture, or
A special way of saying Sir.

So tree is partly girl; moon
And wit slide through the sky together;
And which is star - what's come a million
Miles or gone those inches further?

-- Norman MacCaig