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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. |