The world is charged with Your grandeur, O God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do we then now not reck Your rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared smeared with toil;
And sears our smudge and shares our smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.…