The Riddle in  General    rated 4 of 5

Shall I love God for causing me to be?
I was mere utterance; shall these words love me?

Yet when I caused His work to jar and stammer,
And one free subject loosened all His grammar,

I love Him that He did not in a rage
Once and forever rule me off the page,

But, thinking I might come to please Him yet,
Crossed out 'delete' and wrote His patient 'stet'.

By Richard Wilbur

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Other poems by Richard Wilbur:

• A Fable
• A World Without Objects is a Sensible Emptiness
• Advice to a Prophet
• Boy at the Window
• Epistemology
• Exeunt
• For K.R. on her Sixtieth Birthday
• Having Misidentified A Wildflower
• In a Churchyard
• In the Smoking Car
• Juggler
• June Light
• Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World
• March 26, 1974
• Matthew VIII,28 ff.
• Museum Piece
• Orchard Trees, January
• Parable
• Puritans
• Riddle
• Shame
• The Beautiful Changes
• The Prisoner of Zenda
• The Riddle
• The Ride
• To the Etruscan Poets
• Transit
• Wedding Toast
• Worlds

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