Nature’s Questioning

What is the use of my frail breath, Will nature’s wanting reach you at death, Who without spirit strives for unity? Can you feel joy? Can you feel me?

The gusts that tinge the sky with flight, And the fingers of the clouds so bright, They call! They beckon toward that bright ray, That dawns with warmth on every day.

I rise! I run! I fall on the dew, To find the whispers of a spirit true, And dance with woodland spirits in green, And leave this human place unseen.

• Thomas Hardy