The Worship of Nature

The harp at Nature’s advent strung

      Has never ceased to play;

The song the stars of morning sung

      Has 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 earth

      Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends its incense up

      From many a mountain shrine;

From folded leaf and dewy cup

      She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills

      Rise white as wings of prayer;

The altar-curtains of the hills

      Are 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 crossed

      The twilight forest grieves,

Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost

      From all its sunlit leaves.

The blue sky is the temple’s arch,

      Its transept earth and air,

The music of its starry march

      The chorus of a prayer.

So Nature keeps the reverent frame

      With which her years began,

And all her signs and voices shame

      The prayerless heart of man.