Nature

This mount shall be our fane, a holy place!
No acolyte shall swing the thurible,
Nor whispering worshipper his rosary tell;
No priest shall here stand robed in lawn and lace;
But the Eternal shall look down through space,
And we will gaze and wonder:— it is well!
Here where the heath-flower and the wild thyme dwell,
How sweet is life, how fair, how full of grace!
In place of prayer we'll chant our joyous praise,
And with glad voices sing in Nature's choir:
These lines of fir shall see on Sabbath-days
Our faces flushing with our heart's desire,
As up the mountain side through wooded ways,
We seek that peace to which our souls aspire.