31.12.2010, 12:12
SILENT PRAISE.
O Thou, Who givest to the woodland wren
A throat, like to a little light-set door.
That opens to his early joy—to men
The spirit of true worship, which is more
Than all this sylvan rapture : what a world
Is Thine, O Lord !—skies, earth, men, beasts, and birds !
The poet and the painter have unfurl'd
Their love and wonder in descriptive words,
Or sprightly hues—each, after his own sort.
Emptying his heart of its delicious hoards ;
But all self-conscious blazonry comes short
Of that still sense no active mood affords.
Ere yet the brush is dipt, or utter'd phrase
Hath breathed abroad those folds of silent praise !
O Thou, Who givest to the woodland wren
A throat, like to a little light-set door.
That opens to his early joy—to men
The spirit of true worship, which is more
Than all this sylvan rapture : what a world
Is Thine, O Lord !—skies, earth, men, beasts, and birds !
The poet and the painter have unfurl'd
Their love and wonder in descriptive words,
Or sprightly hues—each, after his own sort.
Emptying his heart of its delicious hoards ;
But all self-conscious blazonry comes short
Of that still sense no active mood affords.
Ere yet the brush is dipt, or utter'd phrase
Hath breathed abroad those folds of silent praise !