“Work”? Well, not work—this vain lone urgent quest
To conjure life, love, wonder into words;
Diviner songs than any me have blessed
Were sung, at ease, this daybreak, by the birds.
I watch, with loving envy, in her glass
The dreamlike image of the snow-white swan;
As mute a miracle is the common grass
That springs into green again, June’s sickle gone.
What music could be mine compared with that
The idling wind woos from the sand dune’s bent?
What meaning deeper than the smile whereat
A burning heart conceives the loved intent?
“And what didst thou?” … I see the vaulted throng,
Seraph and human, in that dread array
Before the Judge, to whom all dooms belong. . .
Will the lost child in me cry bravely “Play”?
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