THE “CREATION.”
Winter is past. The changing, softened sky,
The robin’s cheery note, the sea-bird’s cry,
The willow pussies peeping from their nest;
The modest sparrow, with his dappled breast,
Flitting beneath the lilacs by the wall;
The budding tree, the tender grass, with all
Its tiny hands uplifted to the sun,
Who reaches down and clasps them, one by one;
The mayflower sleeping on her snowy bed,
And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!”
Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully
As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!”
The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath,
And leaping swiftly down its rocky path,
Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool,
Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool;
The floating clouds, the fragrant earth, the sea,
With its low whispers of eternity,—
All join in one grand harmony of praise
To Him, Creator, Lord, Ancient of Days.