A MORNING PRAYER
A light spreads over meadows, fields and lane,
Streams brightly shine through the fogs of fading night,
As in a castle lit by fables’ light again
In the distance windows burn with a crimson light
Of the newly risen sun’s reflected flame . . .
Light, fire, beauty, bliss delight and fame
I humbly bow before your shining might . . .
How ’neath your spell all wakes to live, rejoice.
How with delight shines all that fore me lies.
And sparkling dew that shines on flowers choice
Unwittingly now rises into my eyes.
Even the aged woman's furrows gleam
As she greets me, passing by, as in a dream
“Praised be the Lord.” . . Amen, answers my voice.
“Praised be the Lord” . . . We both praise Him on high.
The woman, hobbling yonder to the shrine.
Where He will be revealed to her on nigh
Where gleam the jewelled altar cloth, and sacred candles shine
And I who worship Him, sublime and stern
Among the meadows green, where only burn
The dew’s bright jewels, that on the flowers lie.
Be praised . . Be worshipped . . How else can we express
In human speech the soul’s outpouring thought,
That emanates from the horizon’s light excess
The morning air, with the scent of meadows fraught,
The blooming merigolds that paint the waters gold,
The songs of nightingales whose straining throats unfold
A greeting to the sun, while they soar to heights unsought.
How could one show his gratitude unbound
To the Unknown Might and Will, that watched my dreams
Through the night of many a frightening scene and sound,
Then permitted me to see daylight’s early beams
And to breathe again upon the break of day,
All the beauty of a sunlit morn in May,
And to find delight in life’s ever changing schemes . .
Might! Will! Again but hollow words of Man
That but suffice within man’s meager scope
That from the sphere of matter never can
Reach up into that unknown far off slope
Where ends at length, Cosmic serenity.
Beyond all matter, thought, Eternity
You rule alone in the realm of unreached Hope.
You mystery, whose name we know not to employ,
Henceforth I bid my lips be sealed as stone
My admiration, gratitude, wild joy
Are my soul’s offerings to the Unknown.
That, and my will to serve You at your feet
To fill each wish I sense with my heart-beat
I pledge my days to this and this alone . . .
To stir one stalk at least from out the barren soil,
To plant one floweret upon some arrid plain,
To add with one grain to all the toil
That in the years to come we shall harvest not in vain.
To join in planting all, whose yearnings meet
In making of your living world the seat
Of happier and better men again . . .