Write a book, you say? And why, I ask?
What lore have I
That others seek to share?
What I know
Is of the universe; it's everywhere.

I cannot write a book,
Neither chapter, verse nor line,
But 'twas written long ago
By a finer hand than mine.

"Tis there for thee
In the dew-spangled web of the orb,
The petal of a rose a-blush,
In the flicker of a bluebird's wing,
And moonlight's silvery hush.

"Tis written there
In the ripple of golden grain,
The curtsy of a wind-whip'd bough,
In the spatter of summer rain,
And a pine tree's lonely sough.

'Tis writ
In white cloud ships a-sail on high
On a sea sky of azure blue,
In the haunt of a wild goose cry,
In sunset's orange and awesome hue.

'Tis there for me
In earth unfurl'd, brown 'neath the plow,
And a mountain's upward thrust,
A hillside's red and wrinkled brow,
In bracken, and cacti sere as dust.

'Tis writ
In the silent eagle's soar,
White water's wash to the sea,
In the mighty ocean's roar,
'Tis written there for thee.

'Twas ever written thus,
Not thru fumbling works of man,
But by the Master Scribe--
Our Maker's pow'rful hand.