  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. The green earth sends her 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 blue sky is the temple’s arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer. |
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