Song of Praise

O Master Poet, for Thy immortal poems

That freely lilt from springtime's fluent tongue,

I sing my praise to Thee.

I hear Thy footsteps in the April grasses;

Thy lyric voice when larks in the bronze hour

Release a crystal fountain for my thirst.

Thy fingers touch my face in April rain.

Serenity is in Thy symphonies

Strummed on night's harpsichord by silver birches.

O Master Poet, for Thy poetry

I see and hear in every living thing,

My song ascends to Thee.