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.