10 Songs of Creation
1
God at first the sun created,
Then each nightly constellation;
From the sweat of his own forehead
Oxen were his next creation.
Wild beasts he created later,
Lions with their paws so furious;
In the image of the lion
Made he kittens small and curious.
Afterwards, the wilds to people,
Man to spring to being bade he,
And in man’s attractive image
Interesting monkeys made he.
Satan saw it, full of laughter:
“Copies from himself he’s taking!
“In the image of his oxen
“Calves he finally is making.”
2
To the devil spake the Lord thus:
Copies of myself I’m taking;
After sun come constellations,
After oxen, calves I’m making.
After lions with their furious
Paws, I’m making kittens curious,
After men come monkeys clever:
Thou canst nothing make, however.
3
I made for my glory and edification
Men, lions, and oxen, and sunlight splendid;
But calves, cats, monkeys, and each constellation
For nought but my own delight I intended.
4
With one short week of preparation
The whole of the world was made by me
And yet I work’d out the plan of creation
For thousands of years full thoughtfully.
Creation itself is a mere act of motion
That’s easily done in a very short time;
And yet the plan, the primary notion,—
’Tis that that proves the artist sublime.
Three hundred long years have I been taking
In solving the question by slow degrees
As to which was the proper manner of making
Both Doctors of Law and little fleas.
5
On the sixth day spake the Lord thus:
I have finish’d finally
All this vast and fair creation,
And that all is good, I see.
How the sun’s rays, golden-roselike,
O’er the ocean brightly gleam!
Every tree is green and glittering,
And enamell’d all things seem.
On the plain yon lambkins sporting
Are like alabaster white;
O how natural and perfect
Nature seemeth to the sight!
Earth and heaven alike are teeming
With my glorious majesty,
And through long and endless ages
Man will praise and worship me.
6
The stuff out of which a poem is wrought
Is not to be suck’d from the finger;
No God created the world from nought
Any more than an earthly singer.
’Twas mud primeval that form’d the source
Whence the body of man I created,
And from the ribs of man in due course
Fair woman I separated.
The heavens I form’d from out of the earth,
And angels from women completed;
The raw material first gets its worth
From being artist’cally treated.
7
The chiefest reason why I made
The earth, I will confess with gladness:
Within my soul, like fiery madness,
A burning call to do so play’d.
Illness was the especial ground
Of my creative inclination;
I might recover by creation,
Creation made me once more sound.