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by Georgia Douglas Johnson

The verdure sleeps in winter,
Awakes with April rain,
The sun swings low—'tis night—ascends,
And lo! 'tis morn again:
The world spins on triumphant
Across a trackless sky,
And man seeks evermore in vain
The primal reason why.

O whither are we rushing?
And wherefrom were we torn?
We breathe from out the silences,
And breathless, back are borne.

Deep in the soul are voices
Returning this reply:
It took a God to make us,
Only God can answer why!

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