A Writers Dilema

What is beauty if I cannot write it On the pages of my book, What nature in it’s endless glory If I can but stand and look? If fragments of a broken sunset Glimmer in a purple sky, And etched against the glowing background Silhouettes of eagles fly. If night is born in every shadow, Growing with the dying day, And slowly, slowly, hill by mountain Shape and colour melt away. If stars in multitudes, in millions Shape the heaven’s works of art, And in each stellar constellation Beat an ancient legends heart. If whispers stir the leaves and branches Of the mighty Blackwood trees, And in the dark I watch the wind That bend the wattles to their knees. How can I stand and hear the calling Of the night’s elusive birds, Or watch the silver shafts of moonlight Without searching for the words? If I could write these hills and valleys Fable-like reality, If only, oh if only I could trap in words what I can see.