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a white sunday.
The grass beneath our feet is Christian grass;
The wayside weed is sacred unto Him.
Have we not groaned together, herbs and men,
Struggling through stifling earth-weights unto light,
Earnestly longing to be clothed upon
With our high possibility of bloom?
And He, He is the Light, He is the Sun
That draws us out of darkness, and transmutes
The noisome earth-damp into heaven's own breath,
And shapes our matted roots, we know not how,
Into fresh leaves and strong, fruit-bearing stems;
Yea, makes us stand, on some consummate day,
Abloom in white transfiguration-robes.
The wayside weed is sacred unto Him.
Have we not groaned together, herbs and men,
Struggling through stifling earth-weights unto light,
Earnestly longing to be clothed upon
With our high possibility of bloom?
And He, He is the Light, He is the Sun
That draws us out of darkness, and transmutes
The noisome earth-damp into heaven's own breath,
And shapes our matted roots, we know not how,
Into fresh leaves and strong, fruit-bearing stems;
Yea, makes us stand, on some consummate day,
Abloom in white transfiguration-robes.
We are but human plants, with power to shut
In upon self our own impoverished lives,
Refusing light and growth. Unthankfully
We flaunt our blossoms in the face of heaven,
As if they overshone the eternal Sun
That is their inspiration; as if we
Sat in ourselves, and decked ourselves with flowers;—
An infinite littleness of vanity.
In upon self our own impoverished lives,
Refusing light and growth. Unthankfully
We flaunt our blossoms in the face of heaven,
As if they overshone the eternal Sun
That is their inspiration; as if we
Sat in ourselves, and decked ourselves with flowers;—
An infinite littleness of vanity.
My apple-tree, thou preachest better things;
Whispering from all thy multitudinous buds,
Whispering from all thy multitudinous buds,
