Years ago I retired to rest,
did some modest building in this crinkle of the mountain.
Here in the woods, no noise, no trash;
in front of my eaves, a stream of pure water.
In the past I hoped to profit by opening books;
now I'm used to playing games in the dirt.
What is there that's not a children's pastime?
Confucius, Lao Tzu -- a handful of sand.
Ishikawa Jozan (1583-1672) (translated by Burton Watson), in Burton Watson, Kanshi: The Poetry of Ishikawa Jozan and Other Edo-Period Poets (North Point Press 1990).
Richard Eurich, "Boats at Lyme Regis" (1937)
Or, as put differently by Geoffrey Scott:
All Our Joy Is Enough
All we make is enough
Barely to seem
A bee's din,
A beetle-scheme --
For God to dream:
All our joy is enough
At most to fill
A thimble cup
A little wind puff
Can shake, can spill:
Fill it up;
All we know is enough;
Though written wide,
Small spider yet
With tangled stride
Will soon be off
The page's side:
Harold Monro (editor), Twentieth Century Poetry (1933).
Richard Eurich, "Lyme Regis" (1930)