As Kingfishers Catch Fire, Dragonflies Draw Flame

Let Him Easter In Us, Be A Dayspring To The Dimness Of Us, Be A Crimson-cresseted East.

Summer Ends Now; Now, Barbarous In Beauty, The Stooks Arise Around; Up Above, What Wind-walks! What Lovely Behavior Of Silk-sack Clouds! Has Wilder, Willful-waiver Meal-drift Molded Ever And Melted Across Skies?

And For All This, Nature Is Never Spent; There Lives The Dearest Freshness Deep Down Things; And Though The Last Lights Off The Black West Went Oh, Morning, At The Brown Brink Eastward, Springs— Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.

The World Is Charged With The Grandeur Of God. It Will Flame Out, Like Shining From Shook Foil; It Gathers To A Greatness, Like The Ooze Of Oil Crushed.

I Have Desired To Go Where Springs Not Fail, To Fields Where Flies No Sharp And Sided Hail And A Few Lilies Blow.