How can we dream
of greater things
Than He who made a linnet's wings,
Or improve, with all our schemes,
The vessel that can dare such dreams?
Poets sing of grape and vine
But cannot make a drop of wine,
Nor save themselves though wine can save.
Why doubt the Vintner and lament the grave?
A child of uncorrupted seeing
Intuits pure and perfect Being.
Why then disbelieve that He
Has greater things in mind than we?