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. Why do men then now not wreck his rod? Generations have tried, have tried, have tried, and all is seared with trade, bleared, smeared with toil, and wears man smudge and shares man smell. The soil is bare now, nor can foot feel being shot. 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, all morning at the brown brink eastward springs, because the holy ghost over the bent world brewed with warm breast and with ah bright wings.