I don’t have any answers:
I can’t begin to tell
When things will all come right again
And we’ll escape this hell
Of joblessness and hopelessness
Inflation, debt and pain.
But I can show you where the first
Wild daffodils are found,
The woodland glades where sunlight plays
The fox’s hunting ground,
The stream where kingfishers flash by
Old paths and secret ways.
For as our vanities are burned
The wild world stands immune.
Grass grows, trees bud, rivers run clear,
Each bird sings out his tune.
And when the money-men have gone
Such things will still be here.