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.