Shew forth thy shoveled concrete, build
thine house upon the crushèd rock
Thy fingers curl and cramp as they attempt
to lock a hold upon the heavy hammer
Thy discipline is earnest not, but plenty eager
Blows, disgrace are not thy lot
But thou hast lost the wherefore in thy meagre,
hasty manner
Be not afear’d
There time remains to grow thy beard
to preternatural measure
Some length of wisdom, some of nature
Either way, the grey thou seek’st
Doth now appear upon thy cheeks…
And just above thine ear
The Replanted Writer 