And see—as hangs the moon aloft,
Her beams come gushing through the air
So mild, so beautifully soft,
That wood and stream seem stirred with prayer,
And the pure spirit, as it kneels
At Nature’s holy altar, feels
Religion’s self come floating by
In every beam that cleaves the sky.
There’s glory in each cloud and star,
There’s beauty in each wave and tree,