THE SCRIBE

TT7HAT lovely things
^* Thy hand-hath made:
The smooth-plumed bird

In its emerald shade,
The seed of the grass, 5

The speck of stone
Which the wayfaring ant

Stirs—and hastes on !

Though I ^should sit

By some tarn in thy hills, 10

Using its ink

As the spirit wills
To write of Earth*s wo-nders,

Its live, willed things,
Flit would the ages 15

On soundless wings
Ere unto Z

My pen draw nigh ;
Leviathan told,

And the honey-fly : 20

And still would remain

My wit to try—
My worn reeds broken,

The dark tarn dry,
All words forgotten— 25

Thou, Lord, and I.

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