Smoothing a cypress beam
With a scarred hand,
I saw a carpenter
In a far land.
Down past the flat roofs
Poured the white sun;
But still he bent his back,
The patient one.
And I paused surprised
In that queer place
To find an old man
With a haunting face.
“Who art thou, carpenter,
Of the bowed head;
And what buildest thou?”
“Heaven,” he said.