Today dawned not upon the earth
as other days have done,
A throng of little virgin clouds
stood waiting for the sun,
Till the herald-winds aligned them
and they blushed, and stood aside
As the marshals of the morning
flung the eastern portals wide.
Where gentle breezes strive to bless,
And all God's world knows happiness.
To loiter down lone alleys of delight,
And hear the beating of the hearts of trees,
And think the thoughts that lilies speak in white,
By greenwood pools and pleasant passages.
Oh! To be friends with the lichens,
the low creeping vines and the mosses
There close to lie;
Gazing aloft at each pine-plume
that airily, playfully tosses
'Neath the blue sky.
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
A breeze came wandering from the sky,
Light as the whispers of a dream;
He put the o'erhanging grasses by,
And softly stooped to kiss the stream.
Listen! The choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing! Listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship without words.
Orlando: "Let gentleness my
strong enforcement be."
And this our life,
exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees,
books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones,
and good in everything.
A wind arose among the pines; it shook
The clinging music from their boughs, and then
Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell of ghosts,
Were heard: O, follow, follow, follow me.
Hark! 'Tis our Northern Nightingale that sings
In far-off, leafy cloisters, dark and cool,
Flinging his flute-notes bounding from the skies!
Thou wild musician of the mountain-streams,
Most tuneful minstrel of the forest-choirs,
Bird of all grace and harmony of soul,
Unseen, we hail thee for they blissful voice!
Upon yon tremulous mist where morning wakes
Illimitable shadows from their dark abodes,
Or in this woodland glade tumultuous grown
With all the murmurous language of the trees,
No blither presence fills the vocal space.
"These blessed candles of the night."
Silently, one by one,
in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars,
the forget-me-nots of the angels.
(Provencial Museum of Alberta)
I hear the wind among the trees,
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.