Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Written at the Close of a Dead Language

When out my window look I to the wood,
Mine eyes observe great beauty in the scene.
The sky, the trees, the brook—yea, call them mean
And speak as great a lie as e’er you could.
The burning red and gold of autumn should,
As should midsummer’s life and winter’s preen,
Evoke from me such words as fit a queen—
Yet they are all too lovely and too good.

Content am I to gaze upon the glen
And fill my eyes with life and lovely things;
To write them down upon a page with pen,
Brings not such joy as looking at them brings.
And likewise, thou shouldst quit this poem, friend,
And eye the sight which God’s great glory sings!

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