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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.
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