The flecks of gold that glorify
The forest floors to loving eye,
Withdraw from me,— a splendor lingers
On trees of God, in their crowns on high.
And as the arch with stars is sprent,
I hear balm-dew from firmament
Drip richly from their whispering leafage
To soothe the fields to a sweet content.
In bloom of dark they softly stir,
Till arrowy dawn the shadow-blur
Dispels — God's tingling kiss of morning
On oak and maple and pine and fir.