 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
79
THE SUN.
Blame not, ye million worshippers of gold,Modern idolators—their works and ways,
When Asia's children, in the times of old,
Knelt to the sun, outpouring prayer and praise
As to God's central throne; for when the blaze
Of that grand eye is on me, and I stand
Watching its majesty with painful gaze,
I too could kneel among that Persian band,
Had not the Architect of yon bright sphere
Taught me Himself; bidding me look above,
Beneath, around, and still to find Him—here!
King of the heart, dwelling in no fixt globe,
But gladly throned within the spirit of love,
Wearing that light ethereal as a robe.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |