(Praising thee with psalmry) and the stately cedar,
Through the cycling ages, stinted not are growing,—
While the holiest sages have not time for knowing.
Mother whom we cherish, savage while so tender,
Do the lilies perish mourning their lost splendor?
Does the diamond shimmer brightlier that eternal
Time makes nothing dimmer of its light supernal?
Do the treasures hidden in earth's rocky bosom,
Cry to men unbidden that they come and loose them?
Is the dew of dawntide sad because the Summer