What though the moon should come
   With a blinding glow,
And the stars have a game
   On the wood's edge,
A man would have to still
   Cut and weed and sow,
And lay a white line
   When he plants a hedge.

What though God
   With a great sound of rain
Came to talk of violets
   And things people do,
I would have to labor
   And dig with my brain
Still to get a truth
   Out of all words new.

by Orrick Johns

Other poems of ORRICK JOHNS (4)

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