The woods my Church, to-day—my preacher boughs,
Whispering high homilies through leafy lips;
And worshippers, in every bee that sips
Sweet cordial from the tiniest flower, that grows
’Mid the young grass, and, in each bird, that dips
Light pinions in the sunshine as it throws
Gold showers upon green trees. All things around
Are full of Prayer! The very blush which tips
Yon snowy cloud, is bright with adoration!
The grass breathes incense forth, and all the ground
Is a wide altar; while the stillest sound
Is vibrating with praise. No profanation
Reaches the thoughts, while thus to ears and eyes
Nature her music and her prayer supplies!