Benjamin S. Parker

Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light And shadow mystical as some dreamland Arched with unfathomed azure—vast and grand With splendor of the morn; or dazzling bright With orient noon; or strewn with stars of night Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned By odorous midsummer breezes and Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite. This is thy voiced beatific art— To make melodious all things below, Calling through them, from far, diviner space, Thy clearer hail to us.—The faltering heart Thou cheerest; and thy fellow-mortal so Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face.