Recently found, its a Poem,
done by an older boy, whose name I can't
recollect, at Bellahouston Academy, circa 1960 - 1962, where I attended,
prior to emigrating in 1963 to Canada. Perhaps you can use it ?
" The Toil of Man"
The stubborn & the ornate
compose the work of man,
Test what his hands create
He who underlies the plan,
All time, all space I relate
to toil, & the fingers span.
Why should I make & adorn
why with profusion shade ?
what I resist is born
what I protect will fade,
I think of rose & thorn
then thrust with foot on spade.
The pattern of time runs out
& then I correct its pace,
I give weight of thought
to all that my hand would trace,
But what, at last, have I wrought ?
Nothing, except by grace.
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