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 /> 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 George Douglas Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cow-pasture/
