Is this, indeed, our ancient earth?
Or have we died in sleep, and risen?
Has earth, like man, her second birth?
Rises the palace from the prison?
Hills beyond hills ascend the skies;
In winding valleys, heaven-suspended,
Huge forests, rich as sunset’s dyes,
With rainbow-braided clouds are blended.
From melting snows through coverts dank
White torrents rush to yon blue mere,
Flooding its glazed and grassy bank,
The mirror of the milk-white steer.
What means it? Glory, sweetness, might?
Not these, but something holier far—
Shadows of him, that Light of Light,
Whose priestly vestment all things are.
The veil of sense transparent grows:
God’s face shines out, that veil behind,
Like yonder sea-reflected snows—
Here man must worship, or be blind.