I pause before the might of silent things,
And know that earth is blest for weal of man;
And when I seem most near Thy miracle,
Most like Thine image, wrought in perfect plan,
Hushed be the long caprice of mortal birth,
The ordinance of heav'n rings o'er the earth,
The seal of Spirit only maketh grand;
To Thee I lift up this my helpless hand.
I have not peered beyond the dim-veiled stars,
I cannot tread the chast'ning boreal main;
My hand cannot refine the virgin gold
Of dew-laved daisy crowns that fleck the plain,
Nor set the laurel chalice on its stem,
Nor fill its waxen cup with spice again;
Nor open wide the treasuries of hail,
Nor bind the fields in winter's stainless mail;
But Thou, who taketh up the isles and hills
And comprehendeth them as grains of sand,
Th' assembling patient stars, like folded flocks—
O power of Love—are all within Thy hand.
Keeper of Mazzaroth, Arcturus' Guide,
When folded thoughts, like sheep, in Thee confide,
Nor pit nor chaos tempt, within Thy sight,
Tho' pallid day give place to perfumed night.
