The verdure sleeps in winter, Awakes with April rain, The sun swings low—'tis night—ascends, And lo! 'tis morn again: The world spins on triumphant Across a trackless sky, And man seeks evermore in vain The primal reason why. O whither are we rushing? And wherefrom were we torn? We breathe from out the silences, And breathless, back are borne. Deep in the soul are voices Returning this reply: It took a God to make us, Only God can answer why! |