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.
Isn't it beautiful? Can't you just taste the words and feel the power in this poem?
I sure can.
We had an in-depth discussion of this poem in my British Literature class today and I absolutely loved it. In fact, I probably loved it a little too much . . . I talked a lot in class today.
But that's only because poetry like this makes me want to explore ideas, sing arias, and embrace the world.