Think not that thou and I Are here the only worshippers to day, Beneath this glorious sky, Mid the soft airs that o'er the meadows play; These airs, whose breathing stirs The fresh grass, are our fellow-worshippers.
See, as they pass, they swing The censers of a thousand flowers that bend O'er the young herbs of spring, And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend, While, passing thence, the breeze Wakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees.
It is as when, of yore, The Hebrew poet called the mountain-steeps, The forests, and the shore Of ocean, and the mighty mid-sea deeps, And stormy wind, to raise A universal symphony of praise.
For, lo! the hills around, Gay in their early green, give silent thanks; And, with a joyous sound, The streamlet's huddling waters kiss their banks, And, from its sunny nooks, To heaven, with grateful smiles, the valley looks.
The blossomed apple-tree, Among its flowery tufts, on every spray, Offers the wandering bee A fragrant chapel for his matin-lay; And a soft bass is heard From the quick pinions of the humming-bird.
Haply – for who can tell? — Aerial beings, from the world unseen, Haunting the sunny dell, Or slowly floating o'er the flowery green, May join our worship here, With harmonies too fine for mortal ear.