TO Him who is the Life of life, My soul its vows would pay; He leads the flowery seasons on, And gives the storm its way. The winds run backward to their caves At his divine command, -- And the great deep He folds within The hollow of his hand. He clothes the grass, He makes the rose To wear her good attire; The moon He gives her patient grace, And all the stars their fire. He hears the hungry raven's cry, And sends her young their food, And through our evil intimates His purposes of good. He stretches out the north, He binds The tempest in his care; The mountains cannot strike their roots So deep He is not there. Hid in the garment of his works, We feel his presence still With us, and through us fashioning The mystery of his will. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: BARRETT BAYS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ELEGY: THE LAMENT OF EDWARD BLASTOCK; FOR RICHARD ROWLEY by EDITH SITWELL YOUTH AND AGE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE WRITTEN [OR LINES] IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM by THOMAS HOOD |