All things are mine; to all things I belong;
I mingle in them--heeding bounds nor bars--
Float in the cloud, melt in the river’s song;
In the clear wave from rock to rock I leap,
Widen away, and slowly onward creep;
I stretch forth glimmering hands beneath the stars
And lose my little murmur in the deep.
Yea, more than that: whatever I behold--
Dark forest, mountain, the o’erarching wheel
Of heaven’s solemn turning, all the old
Immeasurable air and boundless sea--
Yields of its life, builds life and strength in me
For tasks to come, while I but see and feel,
And merely am, and it is joy to be.
Lo, that small spark within us is not blind
To its beginning; struck from one vast soul
Which, in the framework of the world, doth bind
All parts together; small, but still agreeing
With That which molded us without our seeing;
Since God is all, and all in all--the Whole
In whom we live and move and have our being. (Text.)
--SAMUEL V. COLE, _The Critic_.
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