 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
135
OUT OF WEAKNESS
To-day, as far as eye can see,
Or thought can multiply the sight,
In tangled croft, on upland lea,
A message flashed along the light
Has worked strange marvels underground,
And stirred a million sleeping cells,
The rose has hopes of being crowned;
The foxglove dreams of purple bells;
Or thought can multiply the sight,
In tangled croft, on upland lea,
A message flashed along the light
Has worked strange marvels underground,
And stirred a million sleeping cells,
The rose has hopes of being crowned;
The foxglove dreams of purple bells;
No tiny life that blindly strives,
But thinks the impulse all his own,
Nor dreams that countless other lives
Like him are groping, each alone;
What dizzy sweetness, when the rain
Has wept her fill of laden showers,
To peep across the teeming plain,
Through miles of upward-springing flowers!
But thinks the impulse all his own,
Nor dreams that countless other lives
Like him are groping, each alone;
What dizzy sweetness, when the rain
Has wept her fill of laden showers,
To peep across the teeming plain,
Through miles of upward-springing flowers!
The brown seed bursts his armoured cap,
And slips a white-veined arm between;
White juicy stalks, a touch would snap,
And twisted horns of sleekest green
Now shift and turn from side to side,
And fevered drink the stealing rain,
As children fret at sermon-tide,
When roses kiss the leaded pane.
And slips a white-veined arm between;
White juicy stalks, a touch would snap,
And twisted horns of sleekest green
136
And fevered drink the stealing rain,
As children fret at sermon-tide,
When roses kiss the leaded pane.
The tender, the resistless grace,
That stirs the hopes of sleeping flowers,
Could shake yon fortress to her base,
And splinter those imperial towers;
Concentred, bound, obedient,
The soul that lifts those dreaming lids
Could mock old Ramses' monument,
And pile a thousand pyramids.
That stirs the hopes of sleeping flowers,
Could shake yon fortress to her base,
And splinter those imperial towers;
Concentred, bound, obedient,
The soul that lifts those dreaming lids
Could mock old Ramses' monument,
And pile a thousand pyramids.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |