When in the state of hard contemplation
I am hit by the thought:
When will my work on earth be done?
Much have I travelled on the contours of imagination,
Much have I hammered on the anvil of my soul,
Where to go what to do?
God gave me only a small gift:
Noble thoughts and words to weave them in,
The mosaic thus created would be my work.
Then there was something else:
Wiping the last tears from men,
Turning the world to tranquility.
In the fiendish furnaces of the world
I strove to save a soul,
In the treacherous trenches of life I discovered beauty.
But now my course has finished,
I am done with my dreams and duty,
Still the conscience wounds if my work is done.
Suffern, New York, May 19, 2018