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mossy footfall in this woodA peal of thunder were,Or autumn tempest-shriek, comparedWith the unwhispered stirOf massy fluids lift in air,To build these leafy pillars fair.
Lavished at wordless wish or muteCommand, the chemic wealthUpsprings to meet the builders' hands,All hushed as dusky stealth.Noiseless as love, as silent prayerMysterious, the builders are.
Ah, sure, these silences are worksOf God's sabbatic rest,A music perfect as the calmOf wave's unbroken crest!These woven leaves that stilly nod,These violets, ope their eyes on God.
The deep serene that worketh hereWorks, too, 'mid human tears;A thousand years as one day is,One day a thousand years.Fell death still thunders at his task,But death the peace of God doth mask.