A moral man, and such am I,
believes there’s something in the sky
or in some sacred Spring, or Wood
that knows and teaches what is good.
I spend hours on my knees
imploring It to tell us please
(all of us, not only me)
what ethic guides eternity.
Of all that’s born the best part dies
and so perhaps the most truth lies
here inside our happy home,
or harrowed through our garden’s loam;
and thinking this I’ve dug up yards
of debris searching in the shards
of pottery for runes and paint
that might mark truth, however faint.
Today at dawn I’ll rise to go
down to a stream where willows grow
from tears I’m told that fairies weep
to fill the rivers then the deep.