There was a seed which the impassive wind,

[ZaunköniG]

There was a seed which the impassive wind,
Now high, now low, now piping loud, now mute,
Or like the last note of a trembling lute,
The loved abortion of a thing design'd,

Or half-said prayer for good of human-kind,
Wafted along for ever, ever, ever.
It sought to plant itself; but never, never,
Could that poor seed or soil or water find.

And yet it was a seed which, had it found,
By river's brink or rocky mountain cleft,
A kindly shelter and a genial ground,

Might not have perish'd, quite of good bereft;
Might have some perfume, some faint echo left,
Faint as the echo of the Sabbath sound.