Green tribes from far come trooping,
And over the uplands flock;
He weaveth the zones together
In robes for his risen rock.
They are nurseries for young rivers;
Nests for his flying cloud;
Homesteads for new-born races,
Masterful, free, and proud.
The people of tired cities
Come up to their shrines and pray;
God freshens again within them,
As he passes by all day.
And lo, I have caught their secret,
The beauty deeper than all.
This faith—that life's hard moments,
When the jarring sorrows befall,
Are but God ploughing his mountains;
And the mountains yet shall be
The source of his grace and freshness
And his peace everlasting to me.
WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.
* * * * *
SUNRISE.
As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal—
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade;
"Thanks be to Heaven," in happy mood I said,
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the east hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see! We are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;
His lustre pierces through the midnight glooms,
And at prime hours, behold! he follows me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms."