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 trod
have trod
have trod
and all is seared with trade bleared
smeared with toil
and wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
is bare now
nor can foot feel
being shod
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 bright wings
bright wings
the world is charged with the grandeur of god
generations have trod
have trod
have trod
the world is charged with the grandeur of god
generations have trod
have trod
have trod
bright wings
bright wings
bright wings