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.





