Classic Poem

Co-workers we with God! Were he to ask,
‘Come, star with me the spaces of my night,
Or fashion forth the crystals of my snow,
Or tone with me to-morrow's sunset light,
Or teach my sweet June roses next to blow,’—
O rare beatitude! But holier task,
Of all his works of beauty fairest-high,
Is that he keeps for hands like ours to ply!
When he upgathers all his elements,
His days, his nights, whole eons of his June,
The Mighty Gardener of the earth and sky,
That to achieve toward which the ages roll,
Creation's blossom, beautiful, intense,
We hear the Voice that sets the spheres atune,—
‘Help me, O comrades, flower this little Soul!’