The Word

O earth! thou hast not any wind that blows Which is not music; every weed of thine Pressed rightly flows in aromatic wine; And every humble hedgerow flower that grows, And every little brown bird that doth sing, Hath something greater than itself, and bears A living Word to every living thing, Albeit it hold the Message unawares. All shapes and sounds have something which is not Of them: a Spirit broods amid the grass; Vague outlines of the Everlasting Thought Lie in the melting shadows as they pass; The touch of an Eternal Presence thrills The fringes of the sunsets and the hills.

Collection: 
English
Richard Realf

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