 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
2
Undersongs
Not to the thunder of the mighty seaWhich on some rocky shore majestic breaks,
But to the whisper of the stream that takes
Its quiet course along the grassy lea;
Not to the gusty wind which from the tree
Its wealth of golden tresses rudely shakes,
But to the gentle-pinioned breeze that wakes
The Summer flowers, my harp-strings answer free.
And there are listening ears in these loud days,
And hearts sequestered from the rushing throng,
To catch and welcome Nature's softest lays;
God made the sweet things as He made the strong;
Not storm and wind alone proclaim His praise,
But breath of breeze and streamlet's undersong.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |