O little creature by the lake,
Come wrap now in vermilion wools,
For in the ripple of its folds,
A face, no doubt, is surly long.

With a stagnant malcontent,
The stillness is a deathly cool,
That leans too full upon the soul,
And dips the heart in ill-fit dread.

You, O little one, are for the wools,
Which cover you from head to soles,
Which cast in worlds unsaid a happy scene,
Not mirrors but a peak through knitted thread,
At home without this weary selfward gaze.

Upon a whim to stand on clouds,
Adrift so meekly in their tread,
The world below to cease its sound,
Turn upwards to the layered beds,
Behold low geometry upon it crowned,
Some wispy stairs to fuller threads,
Perhaps I'd think it without bound,
Yet skyward architects betray:
It skirts from the absurd to the sublime.

A book in hand and piles beside,
I sit upon libraries vast,
The wealth of notes, the wealth of time,
My mind so small for such a task,
In Him I know the truth in all,
He walks me through such libraries vast,
My route indeed His scarred hands carved,
Set out in piles of books beside.