For the apparent disorder
of the broken woods there are
reasons enough, although
we do not know them all
or their pattern, but by reasons
is disorder ordered, and so
we trust and live and love
this place whose belongings we are.
The woodland has no creed
except for the presumptive fact
that the pattern of its breaking
involves also, given tie,
the pattern of its healing.
The wind of the fall is here.
It is everywhere. It moves
Every leaf of every
Tree. It is the only motion
of the river. Green leaves
Grow weary of their color.
Now evening too is in the air.
The bright hawks of the day subside.
The owls waken.
Small creatures die because
Larger creatures are hungry.
How superior to this
human confusion of greed
and creed, blood and fire.
Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, I said, to find
One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear--
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but the shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.