There's a wind that sweeps through the day and night, <br />And like the lightning goes, <br />But none have heard the sound of its wings, <br />And none know whither it blows; <br />But where'er it comes the thoughts of men <br />Are like clouds together hurled, <br />As they are carried with mystic speed <br />Over the crazy world. <br />We see no waving of leafy boughs, <br />Nor heave of the purple sea; <br />When this wind its fiercest blows, the Earth <br />May be still as the dead men be; <br />But the spirit feels its fiery breath <br />And the souls of men are stirr'd, <br />As o'er the mesmeric lines of life <br />Is flashed the magic word. <br />The gale from the Spirit-land blows in, <br />And they who feel it glow <br />With an ecstasy and ardour like <br />The seers of long ago — <br />The vital and inspiring breath <br />With which ideas are sown, <br />Like visioned seeds, in the mystic soil <br />Where the spirit-flowers are grown!<br /><br />Robert Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inspiration-123/
