Re-Creation.

Tempered with subtler steel
Than man can mould,
The arch of years casts out its span
The earth to hold.
Alas! Its cunning light
Draws on my soul,
And with its naked blade
It takes its toll.
Ah! Call it back—
That blinded soul—to see
The naked earth again In infancy;
The smiling rose new-born
Beside the thorn;
The spring that parts its mossy lips In scorn,
Or pours its beauty
On a world forlorn:
These things I call my soul
Again to see,
A world created for our ecstasy.

* * *