Poems By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge |
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 | Poems |  |
CXVIII
[Thou that canst sit in silence hour by hour]
Thou that canst sit in silence hour by hour
And know God is in His minutest flower,
And watch His myriad ways among the grass,
And feel His touch on every frond of fern,
On the small shadows as they slowly turn,
And on the little creatures as they pass,
And know God is in His minutest flower,
And watch His myriad ways among the grass,
And feel His touch on every frond of fern,
On the small shadows as they slowly turn,
And on the little creatures as they pass,
119
What blindness is it that doth hold thine eyes,
Make streets a Hell and meadows Paradise,
To shut Him out from His great creature, Man.
Hath He not writ Himself in every face?
Awake—and be not impotent to trace
What is and has been since the world began!
Make streets a Hell and meadows Paradise,
To shut Him out from His great creature, Man.
Hath He not writ Himself in every face?
Awake—and be not impotent to trace
What is and has been since the world began!
| Poems | |