The Harp

John Greenleaf Whittier

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The Harp

*

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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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 blue sky is the temple’s arch,

Its transept earth and air,

The music of its starry march

The chorus of a prayer.

*

 

John Greenleaf Whittier

headr