Song of Nature
Mine
are
the
night
and
morning,
The
pits
of
air,
the
gulf
of
space,
The
sportive
sun,
the
gibbous
moon,
The
innumerable
days.
I
hid
in
the
solar
glory,
I
am
dumb
in
the
pealing
song,
I
rest
on
the
pitch
of
the
torrent,
In
slumber
I
am
strong.
No
numbers
have
counted
my
tallies,
No
tribes
my
house
can
fill,
I
sit
by
the
shining
Fount
of
Life,
And
pour
the
deluge
still;
And
ever
by
delicate
powers
Gathering
along
the
centuries
From
race
on
race
the
rarest
flowers,
My
wreath
shall
nothing
miss.
And
many
a
thousand
summers
My
apples
ripened
well,
And
light
from
meliorating
stars
With
firmer
glory
fell.
I
wrote
the
past
in
characters
Of
rock
and
fire
the
scroll,
The
building
in
the
coral
sea,
The
planting
of
the
coal.
And
thefts
from
satellites
and
rings
And
broken
stars
I
drew,
And
out
of
spent
and
aged
things
I
formed
the
world
anew;
What
time
the
gods
kept
carnival,
Tricked
out
in
star
and
flower,
And
in
cramp
elf
and
saurian
forms
They
swathed
their
too
much
power.
Time
and
Thought
were
my
surveyors,
They
laid
their
courses
well,
They
boiled
the
sea,
and
baked
the
layers
Or
granite,
marl,
and
shell.
But
he,
the
man-child
glorious,—
Where
tarries
he
the
while?
The
rainbow
shines
his
harbinger,
The
sunset
gleams
his
smile.
My
boreal
lights
leap
upward,
Forthright
my
planets
roll,
And
still
the
man-child
is
not
born,
The
summit
of
the
whole.
Must
time
and
tide
forever
run?
Will
never
my
winds
go
sleep
in
the
west?
Will
never
my
wheels
which
whirl
the
sun
And
satellites
have
rest?
Too
much
of
donning
and
doffing,
Too
slow
the
rainbow
fades,
I
weary
of
my
robe
of
snow,
My
leaves
and
my
cascades;
I
tire
of
globes
and
races,
Too
long
the
game
is
played;
What
without
him
is
summer's
pomp,
Or
winter's
frozen
shade?
I
travail
in
pain
for
him,
My
creatures
travail
and
wait;
His
couriers
come
by
squadrons,
He
comes
not
to
the
gate.
Twice
I
have
moulded
an
image,
And
thrice
outstretched
my
hand,
Made
one
of
day,
and
one
of
night,
And
one
of
the
salt
sea-sand.
One
in
a
Judaean
manger,
And
one
by
Avon
stream,
One
over
against
the
mouths
of
Nile,
And
one
in
the
Academe.
I
moulded
kings
and
saviours,
And
bards
o'er
kings
to
rule;—
But
fell
the
starry
influence
short,
The
cup
was
never
full.
Yet
whirl
the
glowing
wheels
once
more,
And
mix
the
bowl
again;
Seethe,
fate!
the
ancient
elements,
Heat,
cold,
wet,
dry,
and
peace,
and
pain.
Let
war
and
trade
and
creeds
and
song
Blend,
ripen
race
on
race,
The
sunburnt
world
a
man
shall
breed
Of
all
the
zones,
and
countless
days.
No
ray
is
dimmed,
no
atom
worn,
My
oldest
force
is
good
as
new,
And
the
fresh
rose
on
yonder
thorn
Gives
back
the
bending
heavens
in
dew.
