Under the sway, in old Japan,
Of silent cryptic trees,
There is a shrine the worldliest
Would near with bended knees.
Green, thro a torii, the way
Leads to it, worn, across
A rivulet whose voice intones
With mystery of moss.
A mystery that is everywhere:
The god beneath his shrine
Seems but a mossy shape — yet so
Ensheathed is more divine.
For tho Nature has muffled him
And sealed him there away,
The meaning of all faith remains —
That men will ever pray.
Aye will, as long as soul has need,
As long as earth is sod
With tombs, bow down the knee to all
That wakens in them God.