From a poor root,
Which all the winter sleeps here underfoot,
And hath no wings
To raise it to the truth and light of things―
But is still trod
By ev'ry wand'ring clod.
And warm the dead,
And by a sacred incubation fed
With life this frame,
Which once had neither being, form, nor name―
Grant, I may so
Thy steps track here below,
Thy sacred way―
And by those hid ascents climb to that day
Which breaks from Thee,
Who art in all things, though invisibly.
Horatia K. F. Gatty, Juliana Horatia Ewing and Her Books, 1885, Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, London, Part III, The Hidden Flower, Henry Vaughan, 47
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