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.

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