WHAT moves that lonely man is not the boom <br />Of waves that break agains the cliff so strong; <br />Nor roar of thunder, when that travelling voice <br />Is caught by rocks that carry far along. <br /> <br />'Tis not the groan of oak tree i its prime, <br />When lightning strikes its solid heart to dust; <br />Nor frozen pond when, melted by the sun, <br />It suddenly doth break its sparkling crust. <br /> <br />What moves that man is when the blind bat taps <br />His window when he sits alone at night; <br />Or when the small bird sounds like some great beast <br />Among the dead, dry leaves so fraiil and light. <br /> <br />Or when the moths on his night-pillow beat <br />Such heavy blows he fears they'll break his bones; <br />Or when a mouse inside the papered walls, <br />Comes like a tiger crunching through the stones.<br /><br />William Henry Davies<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hermit-2/
