Description
‘Here we are,
wandering alone,
waiting duteously on Nature,
while she unfolds a page of stern,
of silent,
and solemn poetry
beneath our attentive gaze
The story that has been narrated,
the song that has been sung to us,
possess what we were enabled to create
But indolent we are;
reckless we are,
and most ignorant;
for we do not know that our dreams are rare,
our feelings peculiar
We do not know,
have never known,
and will die without knowing,
the full value of that spring
whose bright fresh bubbling in our hearts,
keeps it green’
VaL Smit ©
