FREE BOOKS

Author's List




PREV.   NEXT  
|<   78   79   80   81   82   83   84   85   86   87   88   89   90   91   92   93   94   95   96   97   98   99   100   101   102  
>>  
II. 'Neath a golden cloud he stands, Spreading his impassioned hands. "O God's Earth!" he saith, "the sign From the Father-soul to mine Of all beauteous mysteries, Of all perfect images Which, divine in His divine, In my human only are Very excellent and fair! Think not, Earth, that I would raise Weary forehead in thy praise, (Weary, that I cannot go Farther from thy region low,) If were struck no richer meanings From thee than thyself. The leaning Of the close trees o'er the brim Of a sunshine-haunted stream Have a sound beneath their leaves, Not of wind, not of wind, Which the poet's voice achieves: The faint mountains, heaped behind, Have a falling on their tops, Not of dew, not of dew, Which the poet's fancy drops: Viewless things his eyes can view Driftings of his dream do light All the skies by day and night, And the seas that deepest roll Carry murmurs of his soul. 'Earth, I praise thee! praise thou _me_! God perfecteth his creation With this recipient poet-passion, And makes the beautiful to be. I praise thee, O beloved sign, From the God-soul unto mine! Praise me, that I cast on thee The cunning sweet interpretation, The help and glory and dilation Of mine immortality!" IX. There was silence. None did dare To use again the spoken air Of that far-charming voice, until A Christian resting on the hill, With a thoughtful smile subdued (Seeming learnt in solitude) Which a weeper might have viewed Without new tears, did softly say, And looked up unto heaven alway While he praised the Earth-- "O Earth, I count the praises thou art worth, By thy waves that move aloud, By thy hills against the cloud, By thy valleys warm and green, By the copses' elms between, By their birds which, like a sprite Scattered by a strong delight Into fragments musical, Stir and sing in every bush; By thy silver founts that fall, As if to entice the stars at night To thine heart; by grass and rush, And little weeds the children pull, Mistook for flowers! --Oh, beautiful Art thou, Earth, albeit worse Than in heaven is called good! Good to us, that we may know Meekly from thy g
PREV.   NEXT  
|<   78   79   80   81   82   83   84   85   86   87   88   89   90   91   92   93   94   95   96   97   98   99   100   101   102  
>>  



Top keywords:

praise

 

heaven

 

divine

 

beautiful

 

praised

 

praises

 
subdued
 

Seeming

 
learnt
 
solitude

thoughtful

 
Christian
 
resting
 

weeper

 
softly
 

looked

 
Without
 

charming

 
viewed
 

spoken


delight

 
Mistook
 

flowers

 

children

 

albeit

 

Meekly

 

called

 

sprite

 

Scattered

 

strong


copses

 

fragments

 

musical

 
entice
 
founts
 

silver

 

valleys

 

perfecteth

 

struck

 

richer


region

 

forehead

 
Farther
 

meanings

 
sunshine
 
haunted
 

stream

 
thyself
 
leaning
 

Father