a poem for a Sunday...
When an early bird
deftly plucks a spider
from her dew starred morning web,
she leaves behind a work of art
no less beautiful
and no more ephemeral
than an abandoned cathedral in the mist.
deftly plucks a spider
from her dew starred morning web,
she leaves behind a work of art
no less beautiful
and no more ephemeral
than an abandoned cathedral in the mist.
A man (or woman) could work an entire lifetime
and never make something so harmonious,
so mysterious,
so captivating in its power.
and never make something so harmonious,
so mysterious,
so captivating in its power.
Think on this, you small Creators —
you who are no Frank Lloyd Wright, no GaudÃ.
Think, when the opportunity of your life
leads you to both wonder and despair.
you who are no Frank Lloyd Wright, no GaudÃ.
Think, when the opportunity of your life
leads you to both wonder and despair.
Sit in the dew starred silence and know
that although your striving will be all a vanity...
that although your striving will be all a vanity...
nonetheless...
because you were here,
that same web's cold intent,
now seen,
has become a thing held in eternity —
a thing as precious
as your own,
flitting,
dew starred
life.
that same web's cold intent,
now seen,
has become a thing held in eternity —
a thing as precious
as your own,
flitting,
dew starred
life.
