Now would some keen, hard-headed
son of trade
Laugh at me, and say,
"Tell me of what stuff a soul is made.
The thing's no good in trade."
And proud philosophers would
hard contend
To tell me all they knew,
Forgetting that the lights of
heaven blend
And shine, while they contend.
So each one to his wish, and as for me,
I sit tonight and wait
To find the answers to my soul in me,
And in the beauty of the sky and sea.