The Childhood of Bertrand Russell

I cannot grieve for newly shattered crockery,
nor shed a tear for shards of splintered glass.
To simulate distress were hollow mockery.
They are of dust. Once more to dust they pass.

How wise your words, my son, for every platter,
composed of ordered particles of dust,
assumes again the natural state of matter,
for entropy increases, as it must.

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