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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO DISRAELI ON CONSERVATISM by MARIANNE MOORE A SERVANT TO SERVANTS by ROBERT FROST WOODNOTES: 2 by RALPH WALDO EMERSON WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE by BEN JONSON TO WISDOM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE RED SUNSETS, 1883 (2) by MATHILDE BLIND THE PSALM by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES WINDSOR, VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS ON HER BIRTHDAY by THOMAS CAMPBELL |