The Worship of Nature by John Greenleaf Whittier

The harp at Nature's advent strung
   Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
   Has never died away. 

And prayer is made, and praise is given,
   By all things near and far,
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
   And mirrors every star. 

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
   As kneels the human knee,
Their white locks bowing to the sand,
   The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,
   Their gifts of pearl they bring,
And all the listening hills of earth
   Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends its incense up
   From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy  cup
   She pours her sacred wine. 

The mists above the morning rills
   Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar-curtains of the hills
   Are sunset's purple air. 

The winds of praise are loud
   Or low with sobs of pain,--
The thunder-organ of the cloud,
   The dropping tears of rain. 

With drooping heads and branches crossed
   The twilight forest grieves,
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost
   From all its sunlit leaves. 

The blue sky is the temple's arch,
     It's transept earth and air. 
The music of its starry march 
   The chorus of a prayer. 

So Nature keeps the reverent frame
   With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
   The prayer less heart of man.