WORSHIP.
Reading edition
I.
The mornings raise Voices of gold in the Almighty's praise; The sunsets soar In choral crimson from far shore to shore: Each is a blast, Reverberant, of color,—seen as vast Concussions,—that the vocal firmament In worship sounds o'er every continent.
II.
Not for our ears The cosmic music of the rolling spheres, That sweeps the skies! Music we hear, but only with our eyes. For all too weak Our mortal frames to bear the words these speak, Those detonations that we name the dawn And sunset—hues Earth's harmony puts on.