Or rather, O land, if a marvel...

Or rather, O land, if a marvel

It seemeth that men ever sought

Thy wastes for a field and a garden

Fulfilled of all wonder and doubt,

And feasted amidst of the winter

When the light of the year had been fought,

Whose plunder all gathered together

Was little to babble about;

Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land,

“Not for this nor for that was I wrought.

Amid waning of realms and of riches

And death of things worshipped and sure,

I abide here the spouse of a God,

And I made and I make and endure.”