Organic things must slowly grow:
To wear by time, their true design!
A barren field should yield and flow;
The crackling fire, the wood refine.

All rolling thunders in the sky
Are always still before the flash.
Thick gathered clouds, they oft defy—
And yet, by lightning, boom and crash.

No smoke can in the ether swirl
If lifted by agnostic flames!
Nor any seed can sprout at will
The instant dug in sodden kames.

O balance must its right assert
To hasten up the perfect storm!
Alas! In failure, deeds exert
Untimely spheres that must deform.