Written at the End of a Book

This is the end of the book
Written by God.
I am the earth he took,
I am the sod.
The wood and iron which he struck
With his sounding rod,

I am the reed that he blew:
Once quietly
By the riverside I grew,
Till one day he
Rooted me up and breathed a new
Delirium in me.

Would he had left me there,
Where all is still;
To lean on the heavy air,
Silent, at will
To be, and joy, yet not to share,
The avenging thrill.

I am the reed that he blew,
Which yet he blows,
(For this is his breath too,
And these, like those,
Are his own words blown unto you,
—Hearken if you choose!)

This is the end of the book;
And, if you read
Ought that is evil, why, look,
I but obeyed,
—When deep his voice in my ear shook
I blew as he said!