The winds of heaven trample down the pines
Or creep in lazy tides along the lea;
Lead the wild waters from the smitten rock.
Or crawl with childish babble to the sea;
But why the tempests out of heaven blow,
Or what the purpose of the seaward flow,
No man hath known, and none shall ever know.
Why seek to know? To follow nature up
Against the current of her course, why care?
Vain is the toil; he’s wisest still who knows
All science is but formulated prayer—
Prayer for the warm winds and the quickening rain,
Prayer for sharp sickle and for laboring swain.
To gather from the planted past the grain.