See the high birds! Is their’s the song That dies among the wood-light Wounding the listener with such bright arrows? Or do they play in wheeling silences Defining in the perfect sky The bounds of (here below) our solitude,
Where spring has generated lights of green To glow in clouds upon the sombre branches? Ponds full of sky and stillnesses What heavy summer songs still sleep Under the tawny rushes at your brim?
More than a season will be born here, nature, In your world of gravid mirrors! The quiet air awaits one note, One light, one ray and it will be the angels’ spring: One flash, one glance upon the shiny pond, and then Asperges me! sweet wilderness, and lo! we are redeemed!
For, like a grain of fire Smouldering in the heart of every living essence God plants His undivided power — Buries His thought too vast for worlds In seed and root and blade and flower,
Until, in the amazing light of April, Surcharging the religious silence of the spring, Creation finds the pressure of His everlasting secret Too terrible to bear.
Then every way we look, lo! rocks and trees Pastures and hills and streams and birds and firmament And our own souls within us flash, and shower us with light, While the wild countryside, unknown, unvisited of men, Bears sheaves of clean, transforming fire.
And then, oh then the written image, schooled in sacrifice, The deep united threeness printed in our being, Shot by the brilliant syllable of such an intuition, turns within, And plants that light far down into the heart of darkness and oblivion, Dives after, and discovers flame.