Thine is the hawk upon the wing
And thine the thrush sweet-carolling,
Thine is the light and joy of life
And thine its fire and baneful strife.

Thou gayest me a heart awake
And, through the world my way to take,
A little dust—a moon forlorn
Upon a night-dark litter borne.

My every thought from thee doth start,
Whether on lip or in the heart;
Whether the pearl be brought from sea,
Or left enfoundered, ‘tis of thee.

I am the selfsame cloud of dust
Swept idly as the wind doth lust;
Tulip, and springtime’s scattered dew.
Thou art their sole creator too.

Thou art the painter; thy design
Inspires and moves this brush of mine;
Thy hands the living world adorn,
And shape the ages yet unborn.

Much sorrow in my heart I had
That by the tongue could not be said:
Love, lovelessness, troth, treachery—
All things alike are sprung of thee.