On A Mountain Top
On
this
high
altar,
fringed
with
ferns
That
darken
against
the
sky,
The
dawn
in
lonely
beauty
burns
And
all
our
evils
die.
The
struggling
sea
that
roared
below
Is
quieter
than
the
dew,
Quieter
than
the
clouds
that
flow
Across
the
stainless
blue.
On
this
bare
crest,
the
angels
kneel
And
breathe
the
sweets
that
rise
From
flowers
too
little
to
reveal
Their
beauty
to
our
eyes.
I
have
seen
Edens
on
the
earth
With
queenly
blooms
arrayed;
But
here
the
fairest
come
to
birth,
The
smallest
flowers
He
made.
O,
high
above
the
sounding
pine,
And
richer,
sweeter
far,
The
wild
thyme
wakes.
The
celandine
Looks
at
the
morning
star.
They
may
not
see
the
heavens
unfold.
They
breathe
no
out-worn
prayer;
But,
on
a
mountain,
as
of
old,
His
glory
fills
the
air.