Were you not told?

Have you not perceived
Ever since the world began
How there
The mushrooms grow along the trail
Red, orange, green, rippled and psychedelic,
There pure clouds fall off the edge
Of the deep blue lake
While waterfalls cascade the cliffs
From the Glacier above,
There the first new ray kisses
Golden brown my child’s hair
Asleep along the waterside,
There the little birds with only a sip to drink
Grey and curved, people branches
Lately forsaken of the leaves
And fall a little way gracefully
To a lesser tree only to return again;
A chorus rehearsing the season passing
Where there the long-necked, white-winged angels fly
Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Riding the wind before the cold towards the coast
And in a thousand moments of creation,
Never once for loss of joy,
I look to see only the sweet small green
Of the fruitless, leafless sprout
Against the hard stone?