The rising sun and colored cloud,
The fragrant valley, freshly plowed,
The field where daisies rock unbowed–
We cannot see: we’re busy.
The wren that bursts his feathered throat,
The cricket’s noisy, rickety rote,
The night-hawk’s thrilling evening gloat–
We cannot hear: we’re busy.
Sweet William’s pungency, the rose,
Lush breath of June that scarcely blows,
Subtle smell from everything that grows–
We cannot sense: we’re busy.
The Might that caused the dew to fall ,
That reared the Oak tree, stout and tall,
That helped each gentle blossom small,
We cannot feel: we’re busy.
The Power that wrought the Evening Star ,
That makes our sunsets what they are,
That spilled the Milky Way afar,
We cannot grasp: we’ re busy!
Too busy, we, with trifling things,
To sense the solace Nature brings,
To harmonize when Beauty sings,
To realize we all are Kings–
A pity–we’re so busy!
…..
Who have not time for all these things,
The thrill that all-wise Nature flings,
Could never master Angel’s Wings:
We couldn’t learn–too busy!
by Ray Romine Saturday, June 20, 1942
