Passionate Earth

Where the new-turned ploughland runs to clean
Edges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green--
Music, music clings, music exhales,
And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales.
There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to sing
High at Heaven-gate; but loth for entering
Lest there such brown and green it never find;
Nor feel the sting
Of such a beauty left so far behind.