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 dusta 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 springtimes 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.