The Little World Poem by Jan Struther

Though God in seven days
The world and all its ways
Once for his own delight did fashion truly,
Yet every man alive
Must through his senses five
Create it newly.
No beauty dwells on earth
Till eyes do give it birth;
No rock, no stone, till a hand's touch bring concreteness;
Fragrance, till breath be near;
Music, till listening ear
Draw forth its sweetness.
And you, my little god,
Whose rosy feet have trod
But seven days' distance from your own day's breaking,
You, in my arms close curled,
Tell me, what kind of world
Have you been making?
These things your treasures be-
Low voices' harmony;
The comfortable rhythm of the hours;
Kind warmth, surprising light,
Food, and the nodding, bright,
Blurred shapes of flowers.
Here dwells no hurt nor harm,
Nor any worse alarm
Than the small stupendous sound of your own sneezing:
Wise though he be, and great,
Could God himself create
A world more pleasing?
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