IT stands 'mid sacramental hills, unseen, Moon-mirrored, in the wonder of the woods Where echoes of the glories that have been Still linger: and a sounding whisper broods Between its naked altars and the sky: And, lo! the trees and all the forest throng Grow loud with rhapsody and sudden song, Like Seraphim who know that God is nigh. And here a dreamer, seeking ere he died The beauty that would give his vision wings, Came questing through the moonlight, and espied The magic of the world's immortal things— And in that moment heard beneath his feet The heart of his dear country beat and beat. |