The Well

 

The world gives in its bounty,

And most of it’s unseen:

Mute flowers blooming in an empty wood;

The golden fever of the sunrise hills

When all are still abed, asleep, adream,

But dreaming nothing quite as bold as life.

We only skim the surface,

Glimpsing, here and there,

That deep well of beauty above which we live.

The world gives endlessly, and we receive

Haphazardly at best, in stolen hours,

Half-guessing what a wealth of world we miss,

And all is as it should be.  Let us waste

Innumerable wonders while we doze –

Waking, in the day’s last light, to find

A cardinal has alighted, or a ray

Of errant sun has gilded something gray;

And we’ll smile drowsily, and stretch, and rise,

Content to know the dawn will come with more,

Flowing unstinting from an endless store.