| The world is charged with the grandeur
of God. |
| It will flame out, like
shining from shook foil ; |
| It gathers to a greatness,
like the ooze of oil |
| Crushed. Why do men then now not reck
his rod ? |
| Generations have trod, have trod, have
trod ; |
| And all is seared with
trade ; bleared, smeared with toil ; |
| And wears man's smudge and
shares man's smell : the soil |
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being
shod.
|
| And for all this, nature is never spent
; |
| There lives the dearest
freshness deep down things ; |
| And though the last lights off the
black West went |
| Oh, morning, at the brown
brink eastward, springs— |
| Because the Holy Ghost over the bent |
World broods with warm
breast and with ah ! bright wings.
|
