Near Glen Darragh

I do not know a sweeter sound

Than rain upon a thirsty ground;

A lovelier sight I’ll never see

Than sunlight on a cherry tree;

I cannot feel a gentler hand

Than nature’s on a temperate land.

 

There may be tunes as yet unheard,

That will confound the poet’s word;

There may be beauties to eclipse

The glory of the Apocalypse;

There may be hands as soft as snow

To place upon a sufferer’s brow;

 

Let them be heard, be seen, be felt:

They cannot my proud spirit melt

As does the unconsidered art

With which sweet nature plays her part.

The wind that whispers in the trees

Is lovelier than man’s melodies.

 

And that which comes because it must,

Divinely raised from fertile dust

To serve some purpose in a scheme,

Be it as fragile as a dream,

Can fill the mind with untold joy

That man can never quite destroy.

 

And man himself was made to serve,

And given springs of life and verve;

Fulfilling most when most attune

To the high will of God Triune,

More lovely than the loveliest flower

When dedicated to that Power.

 

Mona’s Herald     1.5.62