She is made one with Nature: there is heard
Her voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder, to the song of night’s sweet bird;
She is a presence to be felt and known
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,
Spreading itself where’er that Power may move
Which has withdrawn her being to its own;
Which wields the world with never-wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
She is a portion of the loveliness
Which once she made more lovely.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)
