To What Purpose Is This Waste?

A windy shell singing upon the shore:
A lily budding in a desert place;
         Blooming alone
    With no companion
To praise its perfect perfume and its grace:
A rose crimson and blushing at the core,
Hedged in with thorns behind it and before:
    A fountain in the grass,
    Whose shadowy waters pass
Only to nourish birds and furnish food
    For squirrels of the wood:
An oak deep in the forest’s heart, the house
    Of black-eyed tiny mouse;
Its strong roots fit for fuel roofing in
  The hoarded nuts, acorns and grains of wheat;
  Shutting them from the wind and scorching heat,
And sheltering them when the rains begin:

A precious pearl deep buried in the sea
    Where none save fishes be:
    The fullest merriest note
For which the skylark strains his silver throat,
    Heard only in the sky
  By other birds that fitfully
  Chase one another as they fly:
The ripest plum down tumbled to the ground
By southern winds most musical of sound,
  But by no thirsty traveller found:
Honey of wild bees in their ordered cells
  Stored, not for human mouths to taste:—
I said, smiling superior down: What waste
    Of good, where no man dwells.

This I said on a pleasant day in June
Before the sun had set, tho’ a white moon
  Already flaked the quiet blue
    Which not a star looked thro’.
But still the air was warm, and drowsily
    It blew into my face:
So since that same day I had wandered deep
Into the country, I sought out a place
    For rest beneath a tree,
And very soon forgot myself in sleep:
Not so mine own words had forgotten me.
Mine eyes were opened to behold
All hidden things,
And mine ears heard all secret whisperings:
So my proud tongue that had been bold
    To carp and to reprove,
Was silenced by the force of utter Love.

All voices of all things inanimate
Join with the song of Angels and the song
  Of blessed Spirits, chiming with
Their Hallelujahs.  One wind wakeneth
Across the sleeping sea, crisping along
  The waves, and brushes thro’ the great
Forests and tangled hedges, and calls out
    Of rivers a clear sound,
And makes the ripe corn rustle on the ground,
    And murmurs in a shell;
    Till all their voices swell
  Above the clouds in one loud hymn
  Joining the song of Seraphim,
Or like pure incense circle round about
The walls of Heaven, or like a well-spring rise
    In shady Paradise.

A lily blossoming unseen
Holds honey in its silver cup
  Whereon a bee may sup,
Till being full she takes the rest
And stores it in her waxen nest:
While the fair blossom lifted up
On its one stately stem of green
Is type of her, the Undefiled,
Arrayed in white, whose eyes are mild
As a white dove’s, whose garment is
Blood-cleansed from all impurities
    And earthly taints,
Her robe the righteousness of Saints.

  And other eyes than our’s
  Were made to look on flowers,
Eyes of small birds and insects small:
  The deep sun-blushing rose
  Round which the prickles close
Opens her bosom to them all.
  The tiniest living thing
  That soars on feathered wing,
Or crawls among the long grass out of sight,
  Has just as good a right
To its appointed portion of delight
    As any King.

Why should we grudge a hidden water stream
To birds and squirrels while we have enough?
As if a nightingale should cease to sing
Lest we should hear, or finch leafed out of sight
  Warbling its fill in summer light;
  As if sweet violets in the spring
Should cease to blow, for fear our path should seem
    Less weary or less rough.
So every oak that stands a house
    For skilful mouse,
And year by year renews its strength,
Shakes acorns from a hundred boughs
  Which shall be oaks at length.

Who hath weighed the waters and shall say
What is hidden in the depths from day?
Pearls and precious stones and golden sands,
  Wondrous weeds and blossoms rare,
    Kept back from human hands,
      But good and fair,
A silent praise as pain is silent prayer.
A hymn, an incense rising toward the skies,
    As our whole life should rise;
An offering without stint from earth below,
    Which Love accepteth so.

  Thus is it with a warbling bird,
  With fruit bloom-ripe and full of seed,
  With honey which the wild bees draw
  From flowers, and store for future need
    By a perpetual law.
  We want the faith that hath not seen
  Indeed, but hath believed His truth
  Who witnessed that His work was good:
  So we pass cold to age from youth.
  Alas for us: for we have heard
  And known, but have not understood.

  O earth, earth, earth, thou yet shalt bow
  Who art so fair and lifted up,
  Thou yet shalt drain the bitter cup.
  Men’s eyes that wait upon thee now,
  All eyes shall see thee lost and mean,
  Exposed and valued at thy worth,
  While thou shalt stand ashamed and dumb.—
  Ah, when the Son of Man shall come,
  Shall He find faith upon the earth?—