A man stands high above a rippled lake
Its leaden surface brightened some by clouds
Where whiter still a host of swans patrol
As trees flame brightly in their dying song.

A fish breaks free, bright droplets in the air
Forever captured in that morning sun
As cormorants, too far to have their meal,
Look poised to break their perch and dive in chase.

Below the man a lawn rolls toward the shore
Where ruddy children tumble on the grass,
With unheard laughter ringing from their lips
 As if they know they’ll be forever young.

Who paints the masterpiece, who wields the brush?
Who holds those sparkling droplets in the air,
That otherwise would fall, since all must end?
Which signals, then, that something’s missing here.

For all the years of muscle, bone, and sweat,
Might paint a sylvan scene of earthly bliss,
Yet who can stop the rain, the march of time?
Paint streaked like tears upon dissolving cheeks.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield
Pays tribute to the restless heart of man.
To live forever in a sightless song
As vivid as the picture we draw here.

Yet who sings praises of a man alone?
Who brightens when he sees Ulysses come?
Rude ancient warrior with an unknown tongue
Who made a name abroad but not at home.

Might he have looked across an unknown lake
And seen that what he’d found he could not hold?
That richer was the man who could be held.
To strive, to seek, to yield his heart to love.