 | The Literary Works of James Smetham |  |
A THOUGHT OF GOD
As children dip their fingers in the waves
And feel a shuddering gladness while they see
Their dazzling myriads glitter to the shore,
And hear the wide pervading consonance
That never ceases either night or day,
But fills the hollow caverns of the soul
And makes them sound with vague and wordless thought,
That seeks, but never finds, an utterance:
Even so, O Lord, is any thought of Thee.
And feel a shuddering gladness while they see
Their dazzling myriads glitter to the shore,
And hear the wide pervading consonance
That never ceases either night or day,
But fills the hollow caverns of the soul
And makes them sound with vague and wordless thought,
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Even so, O Lord, is any thought of Thee.
Like the deep powers that clothe us when the woods
In summer midnights rest beneath their leaves,
When the full moon stands steadfastly in heaven,
And white stars tremble through the blackened firs
Above a steep and gurgling ravine
That throbs with passion of the nightingale,
And strong imaginations lift us up
To float in visions never seen by day:
So wondrous, Lord, is any thought of Thee.
In summer midnights rest beneath their leaves,
When the full moon stands steadfastly in heaven,
And white stars tremble through the blackened firs
Above a steep and gurgling ravine
That throbs with passion of the nightingale,
And strong imaginations lift us up
To float in visions never seen by day:
So wondrous, Lord, is any thought of Thee.
As in the hamlet meadows, while the sun
Sinks through rich elms and humming sycamores,
And gilds the mosses of an ancient oak
Where coos the ring-dove—gilds the chestnut flowers
And turns the countless gnats to sparks of gold,
And pensive flushes o'er the low church tower,
Whence beats the voice of Time in rings of sound
That seem to vanish in eternity:
So sweet, O Lord, is any thought of Thee.
Sinks through rich elms and humming sycamores,
And gilds the mosses of an ancient oak
Where coos the ring-dove—gilds the chestnut flowers
And turns the countless gnats to sparks of gold,
And pensive flushes o'er the low church tower,
Whence beats the voice of Time in rings of sound
That seem to vanish in eternity:
So sweet, O Lord, is any thought of Thee.
As o'er a vast and blossoming champaign,
Its countless fields, its orchards, and its cots
Lashed round with roses, mounts the gladdening sun
Dancing on every brook and window pane;
While all at once the woods burst forth in song,
And every flower-bank waves its fragrances,
And early labourers whistle to the morn,
And curly milkmaids sing among the herds,
And every daisy opens wide its cup
To drink the sunbeams and the flashing dews,
And gleaming gossamers sow the earth with light:
So glad, O Lord, are all who think on Thee.
Its countless fields, its orchards, and its cots
Lashed round with roses, mounts the gladdening sun
Dancing on every brook and window pane;
While all at once the woods burst forth in song,
And every flower-bank waves its fragrances,
And early labourers whistle to the morn,
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And every daisy opens wide its cup
To drink the sunbeams and the flashing dews,
And gleaming gossamers sow the earth with light:
So glad, O Lord, are all who think on Thee.
So fathomless, so wondrous, and so sweet,
So glad, O Lord, the thoughts of dying men
Who meditate on Thee amid thy works:
Thou, who didst make the mystery of the soul,
And set therein the mystery of the world,
Teach us to see Thee ever, that the abyss
Of craving and unsatisfied desire,
And longings that o'er-arch the firmament,
May rest in widening fulness till the hour
That makes Thy universe complete in Thee.
So glad, O Lord, the thoughts of dying men
Who meditate on Thee amid thy works:
Thou, who didst make the mystery of the soul,
And set therein the mystery of the world,
Teach us to see Thee ever, that the abyss
Of craving and unsatisfied desire,
And longings that o'er-arch the firmament,
May rest in widening fulness till the hour
That makes Thy universe complete in Thee.
| The Literary Works of James Smetham | |