With one short week of preparation The whole of the world was made by me And yet I work’d out the plan of creation For thousands of years full thoughtfully. Creation itself is a mere act of motion That’s easily done in a very short time; And yet the plan, the primary notion,-- ’Tis that that proves the artist sublime. Three hundred long years have I been taking In solving the question by slow degrees As to which was the proper manner of making Both Doctors of Law and little fleas. 5. On the sixth day spake the Lord thus: I have finish’d finally All this vast and fair creation, And that all is good, I see. How the sun’s rays, golden-roselike, O’er the ocean brightly gleam! Every tree is green and glittering, And enamell’d all things seem. On the plain yon lambkins sporting Are like alabaster white; O how natural and perfect Nature seemeth to the sight! Earth and heaven alike are teeming With my glorious majesty, And through long and endless ages Man will praise and worship me. 6. The stuff out of which a poem is wrought Is not to be suck’d from the finger; No God created the world from nought Any more than an earthly singer. ’Twas mud primeval that form’d the source Whence the body of man I created, And from the ribs of man in due course Fair woman I separated. The heavens I form’d from out of the earth, And angels from women completed; The raw material first gets its worth From being artist’cally treated. 7. The chiefest reason why I made The earth, I will confess with gladness: Within my soul, like fiery madness, A burning call to do so play’d. Illness was the especial ground Of my creative inclination; I might recover by creation, Creation made me once more sound. 11. ABROAD. 1. From place to place thou’rt wandering still, Thou scarcely knowest why; A gentle word the wind doth fill,-- Thou look’st round wond’ringly. My loved one, who was left behind, Is calling softly now: “Return, I love thee, O be kind, My only joy art thou!” But on, still on, no peace, no rest, Thou never still mayst be; What thou of yore didst love the best, Thou ne’er again shalt see. 2. Thou art to-day of sadder seeming Than thou hast been for long before; Mute tears upon thy cheeks are gleaming, Thy sighs wax louder more and more. Of thy far home long vanish’d is it That thou art thinking, full of pain? Wouldst thou not joyfully revisit Thy much-loved fatherland again? Art thinking now of her who sweetly With tiny rage enchanted thee? Vex’d by her oft, ye soon completely Were reconciled, and laugh’d with glee.