I wish that I could understand
The moving marvel of my Hand;
I watch my fingers turn and twist,
The supple bending of my wrist,
The dainty touch of finger-tip,
The steel intensity of grip;
A tool of exquisite design,
With pride I think: "It's mine! It's mine!"
Then there's the wonder of my Eyes,
Where hills and houses, seas and skies,
In waves of light converge and pass,
And print themselves as on a glass.
Line, form and color live in me;
I am the Beauty that I see;
Ah! I could write a book of size
About the wonder of my Eyes.
What of the wonder of my Heart,
That plays so faithfully its part?
I hear it running sound and sweet;
It does not seem to miss a beat;
Between the cradle and the grave
It never falters, stanch and brave.
Alas! I wish I had the art
To tell the wonder of my Heart.
Then oh! but how can I explain
The wondrous wonder of my Brain?
That marvelous machine that brings
All consciousness of wonderings;
That lets me from myself leap out
And watch my body walk about;
It's hopeless--all my words are vain
To tell the wonder of my Brain.
But do not think, O patient friend,
Who reads these stanzas to the end,
That I myself would glorify. . . .
You're just as wonderful as I,
And all Creation in our view
Is quite as marvelous as you.
Come, let us on the sea-shore stand
And wonder at a grain of sand;
And then into the meadow pass
And marvel at a blade of grass;
Or cast our vision high and far
And thrill with wonder at a star;
A host of stars--night's holy tent
Huge-glittering with wonderment.
If wonder is in great and small,
Then what of Him who made it all?
In eyes and brain and heart and limb
Let's see the wondrous work of Him.
In house and hill and sward and sea,
In bird and beast and flower and tree,
In everything from sun to sod,
The wonder and the awe of God.
August 9, 1914.
For some time the way has been growing wilder. Thickset hedges have
yielded to dykes of stone, and there is every sign that I am approaching
the rugged region of the coast. At each point of vantage I can see a
Cross, often a relic of the early Christians, stumpy and corroded. Then
I come on a slab of gray stone upstanding about fifteen feet. Like a
sentinel on that solitary plain it overwhelms me with a sense of
mystery.
But as I go on through this desolate land these stones become more and
more familiar. Like soldiers they stand in rank, extending over the
moor. The sky is cowled with cloud, save where a sullen sunset shoots
blood-red rays across the plain. Bathed in that sinister light stands my
army of stone, and a wind swooping down seems to wail amid its ranks.
As in a glass darkly I can see the skin-clad men, the women with their
tangled hair, the beast-like feast, the cowering terror of the night.
Then the sunset is cut off suddenly, and a clammy mist shrouds that
silent army. So it is almost with a shudder I take my last look at the
Stones of Carnac.
But now my pilgrimage is drawing to an end. A painter friend who lives
by the sea has asked me to stay with him awhile. Well, I have walked a
hundred miles, singing on the way. I have dreamed and dawdled, planned,
exulted. I have drunk buckets of cider, and eaten many an omelette that
seemed like a golden glorification of its egg. It has all been very
sweet, but it will also be sweet to loaf awhile.