Nature The Healer

When all the world has gone awry, And I myself least favour find With my own self, and but to die And leave the whole sad coil behind, Seems but the one and only way; Should I but hear some water falling Through woodland veils in early May, And small bird unto small bird calling-- O then my heart is glad as they. Lifted my load of cares, and fled My ghosts of weakness and despair, And, unafraid, I raise my head And Life to do its utmost dare; Then if in its accustomed place One flower I should chance find blowing, With lovely resurrected face From Autumn's rust and Winter's snowing-- I laugh to think of my disgrace. A simple brook, a simple flower, A simple wood in green array,-- What, Nature, thy mysterious power To bind and heal our mortal clay? What mystic surgery is thine, Whose eyes of us seem all unheeding, That even so sad a heart as mine Laughs at the wounds that late were bleeding?-- Yea! sadder hearts, O Power Divine. I think we are not otherwise Than all the children of thy knee; For so each furred and winged one flies, Wounded, to lay its heart on thee; And, strangely nearer to thy breast, Knows, and yet knows not, of thy healing, Asking but there awhile to rest, With wisdom beyond our revealing-- Knows and yet knows not, and is blest.