Bequeathed to me are quill and quine,
a thousand hillsides’ worth.
No greater gesture could, for mine,
elicit thanks, henceforth.
So stiff the hand to wrench and grab
so stunted, feet, to trudge;
the weary eye’d think all life drab,
one’s paradisal grudge.
When hope is stirred, not wit or whim,
a fire, too, is stirred.
‘Tis then the soul her nurture finds,
ahunger’d less for food than word.