So, once upon a midday bleary,
As I sojourned along the rye,
My mind was crossed by certain query,
There when my eyes did cross the sky.

The sky then had less flaw than truth,
The great blue block with creamy licks
Of sundae clouds, for kind uncouth
Too pure, too great for man’s mere tricks.

Who drew upon this canvas lush?
Who marked it with the paints of vain?
Like some Dutch master with his brush
Had traced the heavens like a plane.

But how did he reach to his art,
It being high above his eye?
He must have wings; with mourning heart,
The Flying Dutchman soars in sigh!

Why must he mourn? Why can’t he be
As blessed as rivers passing by,
As blessed as I when I do see
His work whilst basking in the rye?

He sketches through the atmosphere,
No rest, no sleep is found for him.
The genius wipes away a tear
In lapping Earth from rim to rim.

So, can the painter see his piece?
Can he, like I, stand back to gaze
Upon his art beyond the crease,
Where skies and lands become one glaze?

Is happy he who births the thought,
Who plants the germ, who spins the roots?
Or is it he, who, when it’s wrought
At last, does reap creation’s fruits?

Both those who wright and those who reap
Must have an equal share of ill.
Why does the lightless actor weep?
Why does the poet break his quill?

These thoughts I thought till heavens greyed.
The Dutchman flew, but I, I stayed.
And as the spikes waived by and by,
My thoughts were cradled by the rye.