I
Not curled into rose leaves
Or twisted into fantastic patterns of beauty ...
Out of my joy in the Earth,
Out of my sorrow for men,
Out of the love which I bore to one and another
Come these rough nuggets.
Take them—they are all I can give you!
Take, and make of them whatsoever you will,
You who have skill,
And you also who have none.
Hold them in sunlight and moonlight
Till they shine back,
Ponder also the dark Earth wherefrom they came!