The passionless and imperceptible drifting
Of clouds that come where no wind seems to be,
That rise as if some need of earth were lifting
Them on, to bring her fields fertility,
Is like this moving through the soul of me
Of thoughts that seem of some magnetic need
At the heart of life to come, and drop their dew,
And bring the fruitful words that men call true.

What is it you would tell me, O great skies?
That imperceptible is God's intent?
Coming as if its quest were never meant,
Yet bringing forth such fruit as never dies?
And do you therefore vow the impatient weave
But doubt; the patient only can believe?