Wonder
Wonder grows deep roots in the heart of man
When springtime comes with the old surge of forgotten ecstasy.
Where a week ago was desolate bareness of brown limbs of trees.
Wet in the rain and stark with virginal loneliness,
There is now the pain of green leaves awakening:
Of things being born.
Grass along old ditch banks in a thousand country lanes
Goes about its business of making firm sod,
While overhead gulls circle on white and blue-grey wings
And utter forlornly their plaintive, pain-filled cries.
The rhythm of being-born in tree and grass and gull
Finds no understanding in the heart of man--
Only unreasoned response that kinship owes
And a furtive wonder.