Friday, June 15, 2012


                                   The world is charged with the grandeur of god
                                           It will flame out like shining from the 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 fell, being shod.

                                    And for all this, nature is never spent;
                                           There lives a 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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