Over the surging tides and the mountain kingdoms, <br />Over the pastoral valleys and the meadows, <br />Over the cities with their factory darkness, <br />Over the lands where peace is still a power, <br />Over all these and all this planet carries <br />A power broods, invisible monarch, a stranger <br />To some, but by many trusted. Man's a believer <br />Until corrupted. This huge trusted power <br />Is spirit. He moves in the muscle of the world, <br />In continual creation. He burns the tides, he shines <br />From the matchless skies. He is the day's surrender. <br />Recognize him in the eye of the angry tiger, <br />In the sign of a child stepping at last into sleep, <br />In whatever touches, graces and confesses, <br />In hopes fulfilled or forgotten, in promises <br /> <br />Kept, in the resignation of old men - <br />This spirit, this power, this holder together of space <br />Is about, is aware, is working in your breathing. <br />But most he is the need that shows in hunger <br />And in the tears shed in the lonely fastness. <br />And in sorrow after anger.<br /><br />Elizabeth Jennings<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-chorus/
