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Do ye not joy to know the pure delight
With which we gaze
Upon your glorious forms?—Are ye not glad
E'en in the praise
Which our enraptured wonder ever tells
While poring o'er the wealth that in ye dwells;—
That wealth of thought, of beauty, and of love.
Which may be found
In each small common herb that springs from out
The teeming ground?
Do ye not feel that ye do deeply bless
Our harsher souls by your dear loveliness?
Oh! if 'tis given unto ye to know
The thrilling power
Of memories and thoughts that can be read
E'en in a flower,
How ye must all rejoice beneath each look
Which reads your beauty like an open book!
We love its silent language: strong, though still,
Is that unheard
But all-pervading harmony:—it breathes
No uttered word,
But floats around us, as, in happy dream,
We feel the soft sigh of a waveless stream.
