Has too much of the infinite to pall.
For though, like time, the waters pass away,
They fling a freshness, a baptismal spray,
Which breathes of the Eternal Fount of all.
And so, my God, does thy revealed word,
In living dogma or on sacred page,
Flow to us ever new; though read and heard
Immutably the same from age to age.
And thither Nature sends us to assuage
The higher longings by her voices stirred.