Is it?
Is not this life?
Is not this will?
What every nook,
And cranny fills?
And why we do
See beauty still,
In this world so dead
Until,
From it springs
The work of God?
What potent limb,
What magic rod,
Doth cause the world
To shake and nod?
Such perfect balance,
So mirror-clear,
Is what were graced
To see and hear.
And if there flaw,
And if there fear,
Inside the heart
Of stone so dear
How could I stand?
How could I see?
And if there is,
What is the fee,
To make my world.
To let it be?














Comments
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Check out my publishing business's first book
A lot amateur poems I see around are about describing crappy things with stupid long words. Nice to see a proper poem.
Welldone.
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My inking pen...
is ANOTHER PENCIL!
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