 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
“My Father worketh hitherto”
“My Father works,” when the fair flower
With pure lips woos the morning hour;
Or when the stately wind-kissed tree
Shakes out her crispèd tresses free;
And the lark climbs his airy tower.
With pure lips woos the morning hour;
Or when the stately wind-kissed tree
Shakes out her crispèd tresses free;
And the lark climbs his airy tower.
When Night unveils her jewelled dower,
And dazzles with the sense of power
That circles through infinity,
“My Father works.”
And dazzles with the sense of power
That circles through infinity,
“My Father works.”
When, ere the storm has ceased to lower,
The painted bow illumes the shower;
Or marching armies of the sea
Halt at the sand by God's decree;
In wave, or sky, or woodland bower,
“My Father works.”
The painted bow illumes the shower;
Or marching armies of the sea
Halt at the sand by God's decree;
In wave, or sky, or woodland bower,
“My Father works.”
| Lyra Pastoralis | |