Classic Poem

If Ifrom universal mud
By chance malign came bubbling
Uncouthly into flesh and blood,
Ugly, futile, strugglng,
All in mud again to bring —
Why then at the heart of me
What is this that needs must sing?
There is no end to mystery.

If I, with reverence, would read
Upon the mud God's autograph,
And find instead a wormy screed,
With never a sign on my behalf
To light my coming epitaph —
Why then at the heart of me
What is this that needs must laugh?
There is no end to mystery.

If I, a mere automaton
In a brief and paltry play,
Am but a group of atoms drawn
Powerless upon my way
To mud again, as savants say —
Why then at the heart of me
What is this that needs must pray?
There is no end to mystery.

Brother, kneel intuitive
To a stone if you will, or a carven tree!
And sing and laugh and pray — and live!
There is no end to mystery.