The Scribe

Poem By Walter de la Mare

What lovely things
Thy hand hath made:
The smooth-plumed bird
In its emerald shade,
The seed of the grass,
The speck of the stone
Which the wayfaring ant
Stirs -- and hastes on!

Though I should sit
By some tarn in thy hills,
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 dark tarn dry,
All words forgotten --
Thou, Lord, and I.

Comments about The Scribe

I have been unable to find the poem by Walter de la Mare that I needed to see in order to check the correctness of the text in an anthology that I am editing. It is entitled 'Which, ' and goes, ''What did you say? ' /'I? Nothing.' 'No? ...'/'What was that sound? '/'When? '/'Then.'/'Whose eyes were those on us? '/'Where? '/'There.'/'No eyes I saw.'/'Speech, footfall, presence - how cold the night may be.'/'Phantom or fantasy, it's all one to me.''


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