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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A WINTER BLUEJAY by SARA TEASDALE CONTEMPLATIONS by ANNE BRADSTREET ON SIR PALMES FAIRBORNE'S TOMB, IN WESTERMINSTER ABBEY by JOHN DRYDEN THE LAST SIGNAL by THOMAS HARDY THE WRITER'S JOURNAL: POSSESSION by BAYARD TAYLOR THE DEAD MISTRESS by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE THE ABANDONED by MATHILDE BLIND IN SOME FAR DISTANT TIME by CATHERINE BRADSHAW RED COTTON NIGHT-CAP COUNTRY; OR, TURF AND TOWERS: PART 1 by ROBERT BROWNING |