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The
Harp |
- The
harp at Nature's advent strung
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Has never ceased to play;
- The
song the stars of morning sung
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Has never died away.
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- The green
earth sends her incense up
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From many a mountain shrine
- From
folded leaf and dewy cup
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She pours her sacred wine.
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- The
mist above the morning rills
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Rise white as wings of
prayer,
- The
altar-curtains of the hills
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Are sunset's purple air.
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- The blue
sky is the temple's arch,
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Its transept earth and air,
- The music
of its starry march
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The chorus of a prayer.
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John
Greenleaf Whittier |
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