  The ocean looketh up to heaven As 'twere a living thing; The homage of its waves is given In ceaseless worshiping. They kneel upon the sloping sand, As bends the human knee, A beautiful and tireless band, The priesthood of the sea! They pour the glittering treasures out Which in the deep have birth, And chant their awful hymns about The watching hills of earth. The green earth sends its incense up From every mountain-shrine, From every flower and dewy cup That greeteth the sunshine. The mists are lifted from the rills, Like the white wing of prayer: They lean above the ancient hills As doing homage there. The forest-tops are lowly cast O'er breezy hill and glen, As if a prayerful spirit pass'd On nature as on men. The clouds weep o'er the fallen world, E'en as repentant love; Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl'd, They fade in light above. The sky is as a temple's arch, The blue and wavy air Is glorious with the spirit-march Of messengers at prayer. The gentle moon, the kindling sun, The many stars are given, As shrines to burn earth's incense on, The altar-fires of Heaven! John Greenleaf Whittier. |
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