Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things...
Monday, 9 April 2012
Thanksgiving
I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving;And it shall please Jehovah more than an ox, --a bullock with horns and cloven hoofs.
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