O, All that blooms and moves and breathes and starts

Within the pattern perfect and ordained,

And all the sacred things that do remain

Before the clicking shutter of the heart.

How can I close, or find myself apart

From such effulgence which surrounds me still:

The hidden brook that flows down from the hill

On rocks that glisten gladly in the sun

To shout out that the day is just begun:

That every stone is waking to its life?

Nor war, nor famine, crime, nor civil strife

Can taint the secret music of such things,

Which bloom and move and breathe and sing in this:

That beauty is the sister grace of bliss.