Of all of the beautiful words that have flashed into flower
From the wonder and passion of man in the dawn of his days,
When he wandered in youth through the unknown beckoning ways
Of a world that for every young heart is created anew
In sunlight and moonlight and starlight and rainfall and dew,
Not one word leapt to my lips in that perilous hour,
For none there is that may tell of the whole of your praise,
No word that may breathe the wonder and passion of you.

Though all of the rapture of love that the ages have stirred
In man's passionate heart and his pride and his glory and power
He has breathed into sound, and a triumphing song-sweet word
Holds living for ever each fugitive sorrow and mirth
That has quickened and kindled the hearts of all lovers on earth,
No word of man's making might tell of the wondering birth
Of my soul as I looked on your sorrowful soul and knew
The passion and pride and wonder and glory of you.

Oh, were but the voice of my soul as the voice of the bird
That sings at the end of the night in the scent and the dew
Of bloom-laden branches and glistering burgeoning sprays,
Or the voice that was light when chaos and darkness heard
And brake into blossom of stars as a field into flower,
The passionate silence about us would quiver to praise,
And a word should be born of the soul of the perishing hour
To sing for ever in all men's hearts of you!