The Scribe

What lovely things

Thy hand hath made:

The smooth-plumed bird

In its emerald shade,

The seed of the grass,

The speck of the stone

Which the wayfaring ant

Stirs—and hastes on!

Though I should sit

By some tarn in thy hills,

Using its ink

As the spirit wills

To write of Earth's wonders,

Its live, willed things,

Flit would the ages

On soundless wings

Ere unto Z

My pen drew nigh

Leviathan told,

And the honey-fly:

And still would remain

My wit to try—

My worn reeds broken,

The dark tarn dry,

All words forgotten—

Thou, Lord, and I.