What lovely things br Thy hand hath made: br The smooth-plumed bird br In its emerald shade, br The seed of the grass, br The speck of the stone br Which the wayfaring ant br Stirs -- and hastes on! br br Though I should sit br By some tarn in thy hills, br Using its ink br As the spirit wills br To write of Earth's wonders, br Its live, willed things, br Flit would the ages br On soundless wings br Ere unto Z br My pen drew nigh br Leviathan told, br And the honey-fly: br And still would remain br My wit to try -- br My worn reeds broken, br The dark tarn dry, br All words forgotten -- br Thou, Lord, and I.