I see the harsh, wind-ridden, eastward hill, <br />By the red cattle pastured, blanched with dew; <br />The small, mossed hillocks where the clay gets through; <br />The grey webs woven on milkweed tops at will. <br />The sparse, pale grasses flicker, and are still. <br />The empty flats yearn seaward. All the view <br />Is naked to the horizon's utmost blue; <br />And the bleak spaces stir me with strange thrill. <br /> <br />Not in perfection dwells the subtler power <br />To pierce our mean content, but rather works <br />Through incompletion, and the need that irks, -- <br />Not in the flower, but effort toward the flower. <br />When the want stirs, when the soul's cravings urge, <br />The strong earth strengthens, and the clean heavens purge.<br /><br />Sir Charles GD Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cow-pasture-2/
