What is that white belt we call the Milky Way, which spans the heavens and sparkles like a Sahara of diamonds? It is a river of stars, it is a Gulf Stream of suns; and if each of these suns holds in his grasp a mighty system of planets, as ours does, how many multiplied millions of worlds like our own are now circling in that innumerable concourse?
Oh, where are the bounds of this divine conception? Where ends this dream of God? And is there no life or intelligence in all this throng of spheres? Are there no sails on those far-away summer seas, no wings to cleave that crystal air, no forms divine to walk those radiant fields? Are there no eyes to see those floods of light, no hearts to share with ours that love which holds all these mighty orbs in place?
It cannot be! It cannot be! There is a God! “The heavens declare His glory and the firmament showeth His handiwork.”
With Trotwood
WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING
When I wake up in the mornin’, in the laughin’, smilin’ mornin’,
With my soul keyed like a fiddle an’ my heart keyed like a lute,