letra de the scribe - herbert howells
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what 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 …
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 –
my worn reeds broken
the … tarn dry
all words forgotten –
thou, lord, and i
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