THE waves in prostrate worship lie, and cease
To count the pebbles on their rosary ;
Over the scourgèd rocks a smile of peace
Deepens the hushed expectancy.
Each small, lost flower lifts her fragrant brow;
Forgotten flocks turn toward the rosy west;
Day drops her anchor off the world, and now
Awaits her shriving, all her ways confessed.
The patriarchal mountains stand apart;
Far hills are kneeling ; birds arrest their flight.
Then the real Presence crowds all Nature’s heart,
And benediction falls with night !
Martha Gilbert Dickinson.