Page:The Yellow Book - 02.djvu/319

Rh The sun my work doth overlook With searching light; The serious moon, the flickering star, My midnight lamp and candle are; A soul unhardened is the book Wherein I write.

There labouring, my heart is eased Of every care; Yet often wonderstruck I stand, With earnest gaze but idle hand, Abashed—for God Himself is pleased To labour there.

Ashamed my faultful task to spell, I watch how grows The Master's perfect colour-scheme Of sunset, or His simpler dream Of moonlight, or that miracle We name a rose.

Dear Earth, one thought alone doth grieve— The tender dread Of parting from thee; as a child, Who painted while his father smiled, Then watched him paint, is loth to leave And go to bed.