Oh, this paper world that I hate,
and hates, it seems, me the more...
Take away these plastic chains of ease,
give instead, the river, grass, and leaves!
Bring me swallows, that ever dancing, sing.
Give me fire, from rough hewn trees,
Let my hands grasp stone and bark,
my softened ears, the meadowlark,
Tire my arms with hand-drawn oar,
Pelt my skin with rain the more,
Let my flesh feel cracked and dry,
that in desert pools I'd haply lie.
Leave me now ye gods of greed,
For I shall build on simple earth,
A temple living! with springtime mirth.
And surely the fall will try it's timber,
And cold I'll be in depth of winter,
But then I'd pray, of humbled heart,
That God above, should do his part,
For in raising the Redwood and painting the Lilly,
Surely my weary soul, he too, could make anew!
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