Classic Poem

Dead old Earth, still wrapt in russet,
Not a sprig of spring?
Not a bird yet to discuss it
From the South a-wing?
What if buds should never burgeon
On your breast again?
Would it mean God, like a surgeon,
Cuts you from His ken?

Cuts you from His Cosmic Being,
Sets you free of life?
Free of His deep overseeing,
Of His upward strife?
Are there in the great space yonder
Millions so set free?
Dead worlds that o'er dead ways wander,
With no destiny?

Fie on fancies so unfruitful!
Hear that robin fling
Laughter at me with his fluteful
Messages of Spring.
Laughter which is Earth's and Heaven's
Best philosophy!
Which, divinely ever, leavens
Life with sanity!