  He has always a wise and knowing air: For him there is no mystery in the mould, Where seeds put on the shimmering things they wear, And come to birth in yellow, green, and gold. His quizzical, grey eyes can somehow mark The silver shaft of sunlight where it goes, Still radiant and undarkened in the dark, To find the seed room of the hidden rose. For him the secret alchemies are plain; He tells most surely how these things befall, In words grown intimate with roots and rain; And yet, he is so tender of it all, So wise and kind in ways of leaf and sod, Sometimes I think him very like to God. |
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