The world is charged with the grandeur of God. 
     It will flame out, like the 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.