Every morning
 the good news
  pours
   through the field

touching
 every blossom
  every stem
   and each of them,

on the instant
 offers to be part of it—
  offers to lift and hold, willingly
   the vast burden of light

all day.
 In my life
  I have never seen it to fail—
   flower after flower

leaf after pearly leaf,
 to the acre,
  to the massy many,
   is silvered, is flooded;

and such voices
 spangle among it—
  larks and sparrows—
   all those small souls—

are everywhere
 tossing the quick wheels of pleasure
  from their red throats
   as they hang on—

as though on little masts
 of golden ships,
  to the tops of the weeds—
   and that’s when I come—

that’s when I come, crying out to the world:
 oh give me a corner of it
  to lift also, to sing about, to touch
   with my wild hands—and they do.