Man Is The Miracle In Nature. God

Such A Slender Moon, Going Up And Up, Waxing So Fast From Night To Night, And Swelling Like An Orange Flower-bud, Bright, Fated, Methought, To Round As To A Golden Cup, And Hold To My Two Lips Life's Best Of Wine.

What Is Thy Thought? There Is No Miracle? There Is A Great One, Which Thou Hast Not Read, And Never Shalt Escape. Thyself, O Man, Thou Art The Miracle. Ay, Thou Thyself, Being In The World And Of The World, Thyself, Hast Breathed In Breath From Him That Made The World. Thou Art Thy Father's Copy Of Himself,-- Thou Art Thy Father's Miracle.

And Old Affront Will Stir The Heart Through Years Of Rankling Pain.

Work Is Its Own Best Earthly Meed, Else Have We None More Than The Sea-born Throng Who Wrought Those Marvellous Isles That Bloom Afar.

And The Guelder Rose In A Great Stillness Dropped, And Ever Dropped, Her Wealth About Her Feet.