Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/157

Rh So comprehending, you might almost deem All Earth were standing tiptoe, in a hush Breathless, expectant of some spoken word Breath'd from the sky or whisper'd from the sea A spell to heal the hurt of the wounded world, To win discordant stars to tune again. So must we dwell with Nature till the hour When she reveal her secret!

Art for me! For art is nature better'd.

Say you so?

Nature is like the ever-flowing spring Running to waste at whiles, and breaking bounds, Art is the wilful water canaliz'd,