Written In Late Spring

Time out of mind doth Nature breathe
Life into the smallest,
Who, all at once, appear to be
As grand as the tallest;
Or shine in splendour of their own,
Subtly manifest.

And here, though daffodils withdraw
Their petals, and their need,
Some power transfers their living gift
To blossom, grass, or weed,
And scatters, as the waves on high,
Their very mortal seed.

A traveller may pass on the track,
And 'round him take a look
At the small celandines nearby,
Or sight the warbling brook:
And think, perchance, that yet they may
Pass on what once they took.

Kingdoms may rise: violently
May the same sovereigns fall--
They do not, like the merry flowers
Unite, when passed, with all;
As all we humans, who perish,
Become part of the whole.

The bowers, the stalwart trunks, the buds,
The tenderest of leaves:
Which sees its bright sibling expire,
Then to bereave proceeds?
Is there a fount beneath heaven
That for each dried drop grieves?

Well kept in each in the other,
'T is so immesurably--
Thus think on still the fact that all
Are earth's grand history:
All are, in Time's ceaseless ocean,
Pearls of eternity!

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed