On the Power of Nature

Let others sing of autumn’s gold,
And summer’s harvest yield;
I sing of trees and not of reaps
The shade, the deep and fair return
Of songs abroad or whispering fans.

When new buds swell and burst, And measure the yielding rim,
Shining shadows prevent the sun,
To scatter the lost joys of hidden light
And soaring dark by meantime keeps
All as in an eternal blossom’s charm,

That bursting forth impacts the mustered ray,
The wings unfurl to meet the skies; Yet there is a gentle power, O seek beyond the bruising edge of dawn
To call, and break the break of circumstance.

• Lord Byron