by A.E. Coppard (1878-1957)
In this wind’s following there is an unknown richness,
A breathing mysterious bloom,
Nor gorse nor may nor hyacinth nor herb;
No man could name that perfume.
The white flowers living in this field
Stare at the sky; in the field beyond
There are yellow flowers that nod wisely to the turf:
And that is all.
But yes, there are clouds in the sky, soft rocks,
The sunlight pounds them like an axe,
The wind through its couch of blue
Divides, diminishes and harries them,
And innocence, perceiving this, rejoices:
For though the wind has no colour,
The sky no smell,
The earth no speech,
They survive and accomplish justice.