When things are made, all Nature seems to brood
Wearing awhile the wonder we create;
And we, the givers, walk with her, elate,
Owning our gift well-fashioned as we would.
Consigned toil! Swift end: brief quietude!
Now the disdainful Angel shall not wait
With cloudy sword to wave you from the gate,
And not for long we see that you are good.

He, Who first planned the doer and the deed,
Dared trace no FINIS to His dream begun,
Framing the wise wind fitful to the reed;
Hardly He hears us vaunting " It is done",
Stirs in His rest an instant, not takes heed,
And blindly lets the unpausing wheel run on.