Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no I thou art a wondrous book
To sky, and sea, and land--
A page on which the angels look--
Which insects understand!
And here, O light! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,
Thy bright small hand is here!
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide
Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide--
And that Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings
Yon line of liquid light,
That down from heaven in madness flings
The blind foam of its might?
Do I not hear his thunder roll--
The roar that ne'er is still?
'Tis mute as death!--but in my soul
It roars, and ever will.
What forests tall of tiniest moss
Clothe every little stone!--
What pigmy oaks their foliage toss
O'er pigmy valleys lone!
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,
Ambitious of the sky,
They feather o'er the steepest edge
Of mountains mushroom-high.
Oh, God of marvels! who can tell