Deep with divine tautology, The sunset’s mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like west With hieroglyphs of burning gold: Forever new, forever old, Its miracle is manifest.
Time lays the scroll away. And now Above the hills a giant brow Night lifts of cloud; and from her arm, Barbaric black, upon the world, With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled Her awful argument of storm.
What part, O man, is yours in such? Whose awe and wonder are in touch With Nature,--speaking rapture to Your soul,--yet leaving in your reach No human word of thought or speech Expressive of the thing you view.
Among the valleys The wild oxalis Lifts up its chalice Of pink and pearl; And, balsam-breathing From out their sheathing, The myriad wreathing Green leaves uncurl.
The whole world brightens With spring, that lightens The foot that frightens The building thrush; Where water tosses On ferns and mosses The squirrel crosses The beechen hush.
And vision on vision,-- Like ships elysian On some white mission,-- Sails cloud on cloud; With scents of clover The winds brim over, And in the cover The stream is loud.
’Twixt bloom that blanches The orchard branches Old farms and ranches Gleam in the gloam: Through fields for sowing, ’Mid blossoms blowing, The cows come lowing, The cows come home.
Where ways are narrow, A vesper-sparrow Flits like an arrow Of living rhyme; The red sun poises, And farm-yard noises Mix with glad voices Of milking-time.
When dusk disposes Of all its roses, And darkness closes, And work is done, A moon’s white feather In starry weather And two together Whose hearts are one.
The mornings raise Voices of gold in the Almighty’s praise; The sunsets soar In choral crimson from far shore to shore: Each is a blast, Reverberant, of color,--seen as vast Concussions,--that the vocal firmament In worship sounds o’er every continent.
Not for our ears The cosmic music of the rolling spheres, That sweeps the skies! Music we hear, but only with our eyes. For all too weak Our mortal frames to bear the words these speak, Those detonations that we name the dawn And sunset--hues Earth’s harmony puts on.
All things are wrought of melody, Unheard, yet full of speaking spells; Within the rock, within the tree, A soul of music dwells.