A
potent wand does sorrow wield,
repentance
is a tender sprite,
But
if by chance your faith should fail
regard
the crescent moon so bright.
Whose
voice can stop the nimble clouds
or
eye can see the wind?
Which
ear can hear the silent song,
whose
touch has never sinned?
Whether
among the winds we strive
that
cuts along the hawthorn fence
in
savage wildness, winter's ice,
We
must rely on future tense.
The
crab, the scorpion and the bull
along
with scattered stars,
hidden
behind mercury
the
red haired face of mars.
Temptation
lurks among all words
while
white dust sleeps along the lane,
Darklings
among the boughs and leaves
account
for the crimson stain.
Paths
of wickedness and woe,
the
noise of danger in your ears,
Some
ugly witchcraft might be about,
Perhaps
the music of the spheres.
Yet
man's heart is a holy place
among
the lovely shades of things
Not
given to sadness or to gloom,
regal
as palaces and kings.
And
nature still will find a way
to
bring us back to God
by
ferry of a flying horse,
no
ghost more softly ever trod.
(from Wordsworth's Peter Bell)
