The Wood-Thrush
When to the inmost secret of the wood
I do betake myself, and therein find
A mossy seat, flower-broidered to my mind,
Whereon to muse of little understood
And vexing questions—whether God be good
To send such pain and toil to all mankind;
Or of the world be ruled by Nature, blind
And deaf and callous to her crying brood,—
Sudden the silence breaks into a song
Such as to summer woodlands doth belong,
A song that hath a soul and speaks to mine
In heavenly parlance: by that holy sign
My faith that tottered is made strong and whole;
Nature is God if Nature hath a soul.
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