The Harp

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The harp at Nature’s advent strung

Has never ceased to play;

The song the stars of morning sung

Has never died away.

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And prayer is made, and praise is given,

By all things near and far;

The ocean looketh up to heaven,

And mirrors every star.

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Its waves are kneeling on the strand,

As kneels the human knee,

Their white locks bowing to the sand,

The priesthood of the sea!

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They pour their glittering treasures forth,

Their gifts of pearl they bring,

And all the listening hills of earth

Take up the song they sing.

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The green earth sends her incense up

From many a mountain shrine

From folded leaf and dewy cup

She pours her sacred wine.

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The mist above the morning rills

Rise white as wings of prayer,

The altar-curtains of the hills

Are sunset’s purple air.

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The winds with hymns of praise are loud,

Or low with sobs of pain,—

The thunder-organ of the cloud,

The dropping tears of rain.

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With drooping head and branches crossed

The twilight forest grieves,

Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost

From all its sunlit leaves.

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The blue sky is the temple’s arch,

Its transept earth and air,

The music of its starry march

The chorus of a prayer.

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So Nature keeps the reverent frame

With which her years began,

And all her signs and voices shame

The prayerless heart of man.

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John Greenleaf Whittier