Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/234

 HAT lovely things
 * Thy hand hath made:

The smooth-plumed bird
 * In its emerald shade,

The seed of the grass,
 * The speck of 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 —