Slow Smoke/Little Enough There Is of Worth

by Lew Sarett

LITTLE ENOUGH THERE IS OF WORTH

Little enough there is of worth
 On this green ball of earth:
Wind in a hemlock-tree, to shake
A cool wet music from the brake . . .
  Flame in an earthen bowl
  To warm a frozen soul
 And cheer a heart grown chill
  With solitude and ill . . .
   And water in a rill,
Rimmed round with moss that drips
 Upon the rock, until it fashions
  A goblet for hot lips,
  A cup for futile passions.

And when the high heart is broken,
  The last word spoken,
And tears are many as the dew,—
  The fragmentary dreams
Of beauty that the world discloses
 In every woodland, these are sweet,
  My bread, my wine, my meat:
October smoke that hovers on the streams
   And spirals up the blue;
  Clambering mountain-roses,
 By tender-fingered rain unfurled;
   And honey-laden bees
That nuzzle the buds of shy anemones,
And dust a golden pollen on the world.

  But rarer far than these—
  Than any flower-cup or pool
  From which to drink one's fill
 Of loveliness, a potion beaded, cool,
   To fortify the will—
   I hold the sanguine hue
Of dawn, when courage springs anew
   And the heart is high
As the banners of the day go up the sky;
The wine of the setting sun that holds
 A promise of a glad to-morrow;
 The pool of moonlight that enfolds
  The sable hills and hollows—
  As the quivering silver cry
    Of a lost lone loon
  Answers the drowsy swallow's,
  And faintly the echoes die—
  The pool of mountain moon
In which to fling oneself and make an end of sorrow.