The harp at Nature's advent strung <br />Has never ceased to play; <br />The song the stars of morning sung <br />Has never died away. <br /> <br />And prayer is made, and praise is given, <br />By all things near and far; <br />The ocean looketh up to heaven, <br />And mirrors every star. <br /> <br />Its waves are kneeling on the strand, <br />As kneels the human knee, <br />Their white locks bowing to the sand, <br />The priesthood of the sea! <br /> <br />They pour their glittering treasures forth, <br />Their gifts of pearl they bring, <br />And all the listening hills of earth <br />Take up the song they sing. <br /> <br />The green earth sends its incense up <br />From many a mountain shrine; <br />From folded leaf and dewy cup <br />She pours her sacred wine. <br /> <br />The mists above the morning rills <br />Rise white as wings of prayer; <br />The altar-curtains of the hills <br />Are sunset's purple air. <br /> <br />The winds with hymns of praise are loud, <br />Or low with sobs of pain, -- <br />The thunder-organ of the cloud, <br />The dropping tears of rain. <br /> <br />With drooping head and branches crossed <br />The twilight forest grieves, <br />Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost <br />From all its sunlit leaves. <br /> <br />The blue sky is the temple's arch, <br />Its transept earth and air, <br />The music of its starry march <br />The chorus of a prayer. <br /> <br />So Nature keeps the reverent frame <br />With which her years began, <br />And all her signs and voices shame <br />The prayerless heart of man.<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-worship-of-nature/
