Do you name your hope?
I do not name mine.
Do you label it faith?
I do not label mine.
Only stretched on the grass, on the verge of the
shadowing hill,
Below me the shimmering levels bathed in an
August sub,
A cheeping bird in the bush, and the bee in the
flower,
And the wind in the wood, a multitudinous murmur,
Only this I know:
Not Dante rapt in a maze of carolling flames,
Not Wordsworth tranced in the soul of the world,
Nor Blake, nor Shelly, nor Whitman, nor all the
poets and seers,
Were richer in hope than I, nor of heart more faithful,
Though I will not name my hope nor label it faith.
G.L.D.
