THE MYSTERY

If sunset clouds could grow on trees

It would but match the may in flower;

And skies be underneath the seas

No topsyturvier than a shower.

If mountains rose on wings to wander

They were no wilder than a cloud;

Yet all my praise is mean as slander,

Mean as these mean words spoken aloud.

And never more than now I know

That man's first heaven is far behind;

Unless the blazing seraph's blow

Has left him in the garden blind.

Witness, O Sun that blinds our eyes,

Unthinkable and unthankable King,

That though all other wonder dies

I wonder at not wondering.