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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 wreck 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 bright wings Bright wings The world is charged with the grandeur of God Generations have trod, have trod, have trod The world is charged with the grandeur of God (Bright wings) Generations have trod, have trod, have trod Bright wings Bright wings Bright wings From Letras Mania