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I love the wand’ring river, and the Sun,

dappling through yellowed Autumn-clinging leaves.

A dog there, too, maybe more than just one,

who happily his many sticks retrieves.

On through its Fall-time course we wander down,

splashing at need into its gentle stream,

we wind to where the river meets the sound,

to plunge into the ocean’s yellow gleam.

For afternoon has now arrived on us,

and dappled sunlight has become a flame—

making the water’s face so glorious,

we feign believe the Sun is glad we came.

But perhaps, all together, it is true—

at least, I would be glad if it were you.

~~~

I saw you turning sand into bright glass,

and you could polish dirt until it shone,

and filthy ore you welded into brass,

and you made vases out of dry clay, thrown.

You were not given anything at all,

but took that which no-one had claimed as yet,

and made, from ugly hands and haggard gall,

that which the richest of us can’t beget.

And you were who the people wanted most—

because you, more than those who should have had,

could work your crafts, and had true cause to boast,

while those who bought thought that could make them glad.

They chose you, though you had no offering

other than what your hands from earth could wring.