And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes—
’Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:
I bless thee, O my God!
And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,