The Worship of Nature
The harp at Nature's advent strungHas never ceased to play;The song the stars of morning sungHas never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,By all things near and far;The ocean looketh up to heaven,And mirrors every star.
Its waves are kneeling on the strand,As kneels the human knee,Their white locks bowing to the sand,The priesthood of the sea!
They pour their glittering treasures forth,Their gifts of pearl they bring,And all the listening hills of earthTake up the song they sing.
The green earth sends its incense upFrom many a mountain shrine;From folded leaf and dewy cupShe pours her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rillsRise white as wings of prayer;The altar-curtains of the hillsAre sunset's purple air.
The winds with hymns of praise are loud,Or low with sobs of pain, --The thunder-organ of the cloud,The dropping tears of rain.
With drooping head and branches crossedThe twilight forest grieves,Or speaks with tongues of PentecostFrom all its sunlit leaves.
The blue sky is the temple's arch,Its transept earth and air,The music of its starry marchThe chorus of a prayer.
So Nature keeps the reverent frameWith which her years began,And all her signs and voices shameThe prayerless heart of man.
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