by Achsa White Sprague
I worship at great Nature's shrine,
Devout as any saint
That bows before the
great white throne,The past has loved to paint.
My temple is the Universe,
Its dome the arching sky,
Its lamps the glorious burning stars,
The clouds its imagery.
The Ocean my baptismal fount,
holy water there;
The fruits of earth God's sacrament,
And all may in it share;
The earth my Virgin, Mother pure,
To whom I kneel and pray;
Ave Maria! says my soul --
She answers me alway.
The crucifix to which I bend
Is God's own Bow of Light,
I count the stars, like Catholics
That tell their beads at night;
The morning mist that graceful floats,
And lingers on the hill,
Makes e'en the mountain seem to me
A nun, white-veiled and still.
And, oh! the mighty organ grand,
Whose countless thousand keys
Are scattered through the universe,
And swept by every breeze;
How does my inmost spirit thrill
Spell-bound with magic wand
Beneath those grand and solemn strains,
Waked by the Master Hand!
I join the hymn of Nature's choir,
That binds me as a spell;
With Nature's Beautiful in prayer
All is well:'Tis always Sabbath unto me,
And hallowed is the sod;
One Priest is at the altar there
That Priest the living God!
Source:The Poet And Other Poems.
Boston: William White And Co.,
158 Washington Street.