Though nothing can bring back the hour <br />Of splendor in the grass, <br />Of glory in the flower, <br />We will grieve not; <br />Rather find strength in what remains behind <br />William Wordsworth <br /> <br /> <br />It was Wordsworth who introduced me to <br />the verbal celebration of the glory around us: <br />the miracles hidden in the dirt and rough <br />of fields and lawns; <br />in the sparkling speckles of mica, <br />sifted through stone outcroppings; <br />in the fugue-like melodies tumbling out of mountain brooks <br />as they wend their way through forests smothered in a silence <br />that sings. <br /> <br />It was he who set out in words <br />a vision of who we are and from whence we came, <br />who spoke of clouds of glory <br />floating like halos <br />over the infants we held in our arms. <br /> <br />Wordsworth felt the splendor fade, <br />diminishing as he aged. <br /> <br />Yet when I read his words again, <br />the pictures not only brighten the sky <br />of my burgeoning sunset, <br />they waft over me a joyous soft breeze <br />of comfort and assurance <br />that when the sun sets, <br />I will float back through those clouds of glory <br />and find myself where I began.<br /><br />Ken Nye<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clouds-of-glory/
