  Under the sway, in old Japan, Of silent cryptic trees, There is a shrine the worldliest Would near with bended knees. Green, thro a torii, the way Leads to it, worn, across A rivulet whose voice intones With mystery of moss. A mystery that is everywhere: The god beneath his shrine Seems but a mossy shape—yet so Ensheathed is more divine. For tho Nature has muffled him And sealed him there away, The meaning of all faith remains— That men will ever pray. Aye will, as long as soul has need, As long as earth is sod With tombs, bow down the knee to all That wakens in them God. |
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