This is the most beautiful poem you'll read

One is a slow and melancholy maid;
I know not if she cometh from the skies
Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise
Often before me in the twilight shade
Holding a bunch of poppies and a blade
Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies
Before her on the turn, the while she ties
A fillet of the weed about my head;
And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear
A gentle rustle like the stir of corn
And words like odours thronging to my ear:
"Lie still, beloved—still until morn;
Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere—
Still till the judgment; thou art faint and worn"

The other meets me in the public throng;
Her hair streams backward from her loose attire;
She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;
She points me downward, steadily and long:—
"There is thy grave—arise, my son, be strong!
Hands are upon thy crown—awake, aspire
To immortality; heed not the lyre
Of the Enchantress nor her poppy song,
But in the stillness of the summer calm
Tremble for what is Godlike in thy being
Listen a while, and thou shalt hear the psalm
Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;
And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing
Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm"
Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?
Alas, I may not; thou are likewise dear!

I am but human, and thou has a fear
When she hath not but splendour, and the glow
Of a wild energy that mocks the flow
Of the poor sympathies which keep us here:
Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near
And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow;
And thou shalt walk with me in open day
Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace;
And the wild visaged maid shall lead the way
Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace
As her great orbs turn ever on thy face
Drinking in draughts of loving help alway

Sister Snowdrop died before we were born
She came like a bride in a snowy morn
What is a bride? What is snow?
Never tried. Do not know.

Now let us moan and cover her over
Primrose is gone. All but the flower
Here is a leaf. Lay her upon it
Follow in grief. Pocket has done it.

Deeper, poor creature! Winter may come
He cannot reach her—that is the hum
SHe is buried, the beauty! Now she is done
That was the duty. Now for the fun.

It's about the fact that what Christ asks of us none of us actually want to do because we're all selfish cowards, but, if we're good Christians, we do them anyway.

i never would have figured that out, thanks

Shit tier, W B Yeats would wipe his arse with a "poem" like that
Keep trying Scotty

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Why do Abrahamics hate nature so much?

Why wouldn't you? Nature is a meatgrinder

>implying

Abrahamics love suffering though.

More than implying. All of the Abrahamic faiths spit on the natural world.

>A fox standing peacibly beside a lamb

This isn't nature, this is the dissolution of nature. Abrahamics love life not what is natural and this is a good thing. Nature is disgusting

Read the poem above your post my man

>Abrahamics love suffering though

Divine suffering, suffering which is orientated to a glory and meaning transcends all suffering itself. The exact opposite of what natural suffering is. Absurd empty and hopeless