O Earth! thou hast not any wind which blows
Which is not music. Every weed of thine,
Pressed rightly, flows in aromatic wine;
And every humble hedgerow flower that grows,
And every little brown bird that doth sing,
Hath something greater than itself, and bears
A loving word to every living thing,
Albeit it holds the message unawares.
All shapes and sounds have something which is not
Of them. A spirit broods amid the grass;
Vague outlines of the everlasting thought
Lie in the melting shadows as they pass;
The touch of an Eternal Presence thrills
The breezes of the sunset and the hills.
Sometimes—we know not how nor why nor whence—
The twitter of the swallows 'neath the eaves
Will strike up through the dark roofs of our sense,
And show us things which seers and sages saw.
In the gray earth's green dawn something doth stir,
Like organ hymns within us, and doth awe.
More Articles by This Author Richard Realf
- Born June 14th, 1832 in Framfield, East Sussex, England and died on October 28th, 1878 in Oakland, California.
- Traveled the United States
- Committed suicide after a failed marriage