If on isle of the sea
I have to tarry,
With one book, let it be
A Dictionary.
For though I love life’s scene,
It seems absurd,
My greatest joy has been
The printed word.
Though painter with delight
May colours blend,
They are but in his sight
Means to an end.
Yet while I harmonise
Or pattern them,
A precious word I prize
Like to a gem.
A fiddler lures fine tone
From gut and wood;
A sculptor from stark stone
Shapes godlihood.
But let me just caress,
Like silver birds,
For their own loveliness–
Bewitching words.
