What in the gentle moon doth see
Pure thoughts and tender love,
And hears delicious melody
Around, below, above?
What bids the savage tempest speak
Of terror and dismay,
And wakes the agonizing shriek
Of guilt that fears to pray?
It is this ever-living mind;
This little throb of life
Hears its own echoes in the wind,
And in the tempest's strife;
To all that's sweet, and bright, and fair,
Its own affections gives;
Sees its own image everywhere,
Through all creation lives.
It bids the everlasting hills
Give back the solemn tone;
This boundless arch of azure fills
With accents all its own.
What is this life-inspiring mind,
This omnipresent thought?
How shall it ever utterance find
For all itself hath taught?
To Him who breathed the heavenly flame,
Its mysteries are known;
It seeks the source from whence it came,
And rests in God alone.
[WE NEVER PART FROM THEE.]
God, who dwellest everywhere
God, who makest all thy care,
God, who hearest every prayer,
Thou who see'st the heart;