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.