"The green earth sends its incense up from every mountain shrine,
From every flower and dewy cup that greeted the sunshine.
The mists are lifted from the rills like the white wing of prayer
They lean above the ancient hills, as doing homage there.
The forest-tops are lowly cast o'er breezy hill and glen,
As if a prayerful spirit pass'd on nature as on men."
Whittier.
