What man lives
Who can write of things
That only God can create?

The wonders of mountains
Or the beauty of the morning,
The smell of the sea,
At evening tide.

The crashing of thunder
Or the breaking of dawn,
The setting of the Sun,
In cloudy skies.

Who is to wonder
At man, small in stature,
Small in accomplishments.

Go, I as a sinner
A man without feelings,
Towards all the others,
That have gone,
Long before, I.

There are some stories, quite old,
About going prospecting for gold.
I'm sure you have heard them before,
As they are now part of Western Lore.
Searching through forests and bare hillside;
Walking most always but an occasional ride.
Searching and searching in rocks that erode,
Looking for the very elusive, "Mother Lode."
Hearing these tales, while around a fire,
Trying to determine if true or a liar.
No one will tell you, where it is found.
Only one place, deep in the ground.

It was at 5, in the morning hour
When a flash of words, did occur,
As I laid in bed. Four lines did emerge,
Written in my mind; no compelling urge
To arise from my toasty warm bed
And write them down, while in my head.
Alas, they are gone, far away from me
And now lost. No longer my reverie.

When the winds blow in, from the sea,
That is the time, I want to be,
Out on the water; the bounding main.
But alas and alack, never again,
Will I return to the sea.