Classic Poem

This is the end of the book
Written by God.
I am the earth he took,
I am the sod,
The wood and iron which he struck
With his sounding rod.

I am the reed that he blew:
Once quietly
By the riverside I grew,
Till one day he
Rooted me up and breathed a new
Delirium in me.

Would he had left me there,
Where all is still;
To lean on the heavy air,
Silent, at will
To be, and joy, yet not to share,
The avenging thrill.

I am the reed that he blew,
Which yet he blows,
(For this is his breath too,
And these, like those,
Are his own words blown unto you,
— Hearken if you choose!)

This is the end of the book;
And, if you read
Ought that is evil, why, look,
I but obeyed,
— When deep his voice in my ear shook,
I blew as he said!