Sonnet 53 (Miscellaneous Sonnets)

There was a seed which the impassive wind,
Now high, now low, now piping loud, now mute,
Or, like the last note of a trembling lute,
The loved abortion of a thing design
Or half-said prayer for good of human-kind,
Wafted along for ever, ever, ever.
It sought to plant itself; but never, never.
Could that poor seed or soil or water find.
And yet it was a seed which, had it found.
By river's brink or rocky mountain cleft,
A kindly shelter and a genial ground,
Might not have perish'd, quite of good bereft ;
Might have some perfume, some faint echo left,
Faint as the echo of the Sabbath sound.