Resistless to the lowest task, A self-solution at the last Fulfills thy little service, hand. Regret no segment's single line; These curling fingers, like the vine, Must yield their fruited requisite, To sweep, to serve, displace, bestow; Proportionate thy strength shall grow Until the measure is complete. And that's divine, the measure set Whereof, amorphous, we beget A shapeliness, emergent form Too bright for definition; trust, It is like sun upon the dust, That gathers light from every mote. No futile labor blindly do; Hand, a spirit works in you That out of chaos called the world. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER DEATH by FRANCES ISABEL PARNELL BOTHWELL: PART 5 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN TWELVE SONNETS: 9. WEARINESS by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) EPIPHANIE CAROL by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THEN AND NOW by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE DYING DRAGOMAN by MATHILDE BLIND |