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