O Thou, Who givest to the woodland wren
A throat, like to a little light-set door,
That opens to his early joy — to men
The spirit of true worship, which is more
Than all this sylvan rapture: what a world
Is Thine, O Lord! — skies, earth, men, beasts, and birds!
The poet and the painter have unfurl'd
Their love and wonder in descriptive words,
Or sprightly hues — each, after his own sort,
Emptying his heart of its delicious hoards;
But all self-conscious blazonry comes short
Of that still sense no active mood affords,
Ere yet the brush is dipt, or utter'd phrase
Hath breathed abroad those folds of silent praise!