The sun my work doth overlook
⁠With searching light;
The serious moon, the flickering star,
My midnight lamp and candle are;
A soul unhardened is the book
⁠Wherein I write.
 
There labouring, my heart is eased
⁠Of every care;
Yet often wonderstruck I stand,
With earnest gaze but idle hand,
Abashed—for God Himself is pleased
⁠To labour there.
 
Ashamed my faultful task to spell,
⁠I watch how grows
The Master's perfect colour-scheme
Of sunset, or His simpler dream
Of moonlight, or that miracle
⁠We name a rose.
 
Dear Earth, one thought alone doth grieve—
⁠The tender dread
Of parting from thee; as a child,
Who painted while his father smiled,
Then watched him paint, is loth to leave
⁠And go to bed.