What lovely things <br />Thy hand hath made: <br />The smooth-plumed bird <br />In its emerald shade, <br />The seed of the grass, <br />The speck of the stone <br />Which the wayfaring ant <br />Stirs -- and hastes on! <br /> <br />Though I should sit <br />By some tarn in thy hills, <br />Using its ink <br />As the spirit wills <br />To write of Earth's wonders, <br />Its live, willed things, <br />Flit would the ages <br />On soundless wings <br />Ere unto Z <br />My pen drew nigh <br />Leviathan told, <br />And the honey-fly: <br />And still would remain <br />My wit to try -- <br />My worn reeds broken, <br />The dark tarn dry, <br />All words forgotten -- <br />Thou, Lord, and I.<br /><br />Walter de la Mare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-scribe/
