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.