Do I come upon a sterile landscape,
Is it that something's gone awry?
There's nothing here about which there's to make
Or to catch my eyes even to a try.
If that be so that there is this about me,
That I've come upon a vista made to strain,
I would think that it is meant for me to see
Not a thing more out there but in my brain.
For what is this but only scenery,
I've made much more from less to please. As sweet butter comes from every creamery
My head is churning always to make the dream.
Do you suppose that God made me to bring things fair
Or have I found there's much more to way out there?