On this high altar, fringed with ferns
That darken against the sky,
The dawn in lonely beauty burns
And all our evils die.
The struggling sea that roared below
Is quieter than the dew,
Quieter than the clouds that flow
Across the stainless blue.
On this bare crest, the angels kneel
And breathe the sweets that rise
From flowers too little to reveal
Their beauty to our eyes.
I have seen Edens on the earth
With queenly blooms arrayed;
But here the fairest come to birth,
The smallest flowers He made.
O, high above the sounding pine,
And richer, sweeter far,
The wild thyme wakes. The celandine
Looks at the morning star.
They may not see the heavens unfold.
They breathe no out-worn prayer;
But, on a mountain, as of old,
His glory fills the air.
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