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.
