For everything that lives is holy, for the source of life Descends to be a weeping babe, For the earth-worm renews the moisture of the sandy plain. Now my left hand I stretch abroad even to earth beneath, And strike the terrible string, I wake sweet joy in dews of sorrow, and I plant a smile In forests of affliction, And wake the bubbling springs of life in regions of dark death. BLAKE. H AIL to thee, blithe Spirit! That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, |