The Valley
So, through a myriad channels, bound in peace
And fruitful, runs the Force of primitive fire,
Divided and divine ;
The unnumbered travail of our earth's increase.
The lives of men who toil, foresee, aspire,
The growth of grain and vine ;
The patient oxen ploughing through the clod,
The very dragonflies about the stream.
The larks that sing and soar,
Employ the force of that tremendous God
Who lurks behind our thought, beyond our dream.
And whom the worlds adore.
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