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...THE WISE WOMAN by LOUIS UNTERMEYER AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR: 3. AFTER THE CLUB-DANCE by THOMAS HARDY CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING by ROBERT HERRICK A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 1. 1887 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN AMORETTI: 70 by EDMUND SPENSER |