Majestic moods are miracles which lift the soul on high. A flaming maple tree against an amber Autumn sky: Thin smoke that curls in spiral grace above a little hill: White mists that rise in silver skies from rivulet and rill: A camp-fire sending through the trees its faithful, friendly light: The glowing lens, the singing stars, the crescent moon—the night: These are the moods majestic, which every Autumn brings: These are the mystic miracles of which the wide world sings. The mood of Love brings every man to that great mystery Which sweeps the soul on wistful wings to some far destiny: The love of any little child for any human heart Is something sacred, infinite and holy—set apart: The love of man for woman and the love of maid for man, This lift of Love, this tug of Timelessness, this sweep and span, This majesty and miracle will quicken any clod Until Life's dust and dirt becomes a habitat for God. Ah, Moods of Majesty, be born in these poor hearts of ours! Come! Touch us with Thy mystic might and quicken all our powers! Come! Waken these dead souls to life and lift us to the skies Until we walk amid the stars and all death's darkness dies! And come, oh, come, Thou rushing, mighty winds—Thou tongues of flame Like sumac leaves in Autumn days to speak aloud God's name! Then may our sons see visions and our older men dream dreams Until these moods majestic flow in everlasting streams! |