They passed; they sat a grass-set hill—
What king hath carpets like to this?
What king hath music like the thrill
Of crickets 'mid these silences—
These perfumed silences, that rest upon
The soul like sunlight on a hill at dawn?
Behold what blessings in the air!
What benedictions in the dew!
These olives lift their arms in prayer;
They turn their leaves, God reads them through;