* * *
Thank God! Just ‘wise’, without ‘super-‘,
I stroll among my humble verse,
Like a severe abbot, stooped,
Among the monks, he’s led and nursed.
I tend my flock, so good and ardent,
With a fair stuff – I tend my herd.
The keys of a mysterious garden
Jingle calmly at my threadbare belt.
I’m one who always speaks and hopes.
He only super-wisely sings,
Who, before God, like angel, goes;
Or brute, not knowing God in sins:
It super-wisely moos and screams.
But I am no shining angel,
No fierce serpent, no dull ox.
I love my own humane language
That to my heritage belongs.
I love its freedom, stern but broad,
Its laws, sinuous but fast…
If just my earthly groans, last,
Could represent a lucid ode!