God willed, who never needed speech,
“Let all things be:”
And, lo, the starry firmament
And land and sea
And his first thought of life that lives
In you and me.
His circle of eternity
We see in part;
Our spirits are his breath, our hearts
Beat from his heart;
Hence we have played as little gods
And called it art.
Lacking his power, we shared his dream
Of perfect things;
Between the tents of hope and sweet
Have sat in ashes, but our souls
Went forth on wings.
And sometimes dreamed our lisping songs
Might voice his silent harmony
Of waste and wood,
And he, beholding his and ours,
Might find it good.