Grasshopper, your fairy songAnd my poem alike belong To the deep and silent earth From which all poetry has birth; All we say and all we sing Is but as the murmuring Of that drowsy heart of hers When from her deep dream she stirs: If we sorrow, or rejoice, You and I are but her voice. Deftly does the dust express In mind her hidden loveliness, And from her cool silence stream The cricket's cry and Dante's dream: For the earth that breeds the trees Breeds cities too, and symphonies, Equally her beauty flows Into a savior or a rose.
Even as the growing grass Up from the soil religions pass, And the field that bears the rye Bears parables and prophecy. Out of the earth the poem grows Like the lily, or the rose; And all that man is or yet may be, Is but herself in agony Toiling up the steep ascent Towards the complete accomplishment When all dust shall be, the whole Universe, one conscious soul.
Yea, and this my poem, too, Is part of her as dust and dew, Wherein herself she doth declare Through my lips, and say her prayer.