I.
To him that hears the calling in the calm,
And, naked, feeds his soul at Wisdom's lip,
Bird, grove, and brook—God's voice in silver psalm—
Are like a secret honeycomb adrip.
II.
Remote in thought from every living thing,
Silent the sage without his threshold sate,
Pondering the mysteries of Gyges' ring,
Dreaming of timeless years and iron fate.
The whirr of sudden wings his ear awoke,—
A lark rose free in its grey singing robe.
"O miracle of life," in speech he broke,
"A bird is greater than the solid globe!"
III.
But yesterday I saw a hillside grove
Whose trunks were clad with lichens grey as frost;
At night a storm of rain and wind fierce drove,—
Each bole to-day in living green's embossed!
And so, I said, the clinging lives which make
Yearful and spectral those who yield them ruth,
Shall, when o'er these the night in storm doth break,
Wreathe them in freshness of immortal youth.
IV.
Adown the steep cliff's face I saw unurn
Its waters full, a crystal brook to-day;
The silvery bubbles coursed each scar by turn,
Safe as on a full-fed meadow stream in May.
I thought of that sweet Scripture Satan used
To tempt the Christ, and knew it true they bear
In woven hands our souls, else deadly bruised,
By hell thrust down some precipice's stair.
V.
Still at the breeze of day doth nature's God
Forth in earth's paradisal bowers walk,
And of soul-freedom, Love's restoring rod,
And angel guardianship, He deigns to talk.