Yosemite
by Milicent Washburn Shinn (1858-1940) |
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SOUL of a tree ungrown, new life out of God's life
proceeding,
Folded close in the seed, waking�O wonder of
wonders�
Waking with power as a spirit to clothe thee in
leaves and in branches,
What, in thine age-long future,
is the word thou art set here to say?
Far in the
great Sierra dwell the mighty groups of thy kindred;
Aisles of the sounding pines; and colonnades dusky and
fragrant,
Pillared with ridgy shafts of tall and
wonderful cedar,
Lead to their presence; and round them
forever the mountains stand.
Deep in that inner
temple listens the fortunate pilgrim,
Low where the red
lilies tremble he lies while the still hours pass by him,
Baring his brows to the silence, the dear and intimate
greatness,
The touch of the friendly air, like a quiet
and infinite hand.
Far, far up from the earth, in the
lower spaces of heaven,
Shadowy green on the blue, rests
the moving lace of the branches,
Holding the faint winds
captive, dropping but lightest of murmurs,
Spirits of
far-away sound, to the windless reaches below.
Deep
in that inner temple listens the fortunate pilgrim;
Infinite things they say to him, the mighty groups of thy
kindred,�
Life beyond life, and soul within soul, and God
around all as an ocean,�
Whispers his heart dimly
guesses, secrets he never may know. |
By Milicent Washburn Shinn (1858-1940)
Listed March 12, 2013From "The Washington Sequoia"
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