The world is charged with the grandeur¹ of God.

    It will flame out， like shining from shook foil；

    It gathers to a greatness， like the ooze² 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， smeared³ with toil⁴；

    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 brink⁵ eastward⁶， springs——

    Because the Holy Ghost over the bent⁷

    World broods with warm breast and with ah！ bright wings.