Small craftsmen, steeped in anonymity like bees,
Gilded their wooden panels, leaving fame to chance,
Like the maker of this wing-flooded golden sky,
Who forgives all our ignorance
Both of his nature and of his very name,
Freely accepting our one heedless glance.
from “A November Sunrise” by Anne Porter An Altogether Different Language: Poems 1934-1994
I can’t remember where I saw a recommendation for Anne Porter; but I wish I could thank whoever it was. I’m loving this book.