Is the world a Tree, love,
Measureless of girth,
Every flower a sun, love,
Every fruit an earth?
If it be a Tree, love,
Trackless as a maze,
Then to Him whose garden grew it,
Be indeed mighty praise.
Is the world a House, love,
Sunshine laid for thatch,
Darkness for the corner stone,
Daybreak for the latch?
If it be a House, love,
Huge of height and store,
Then to Him who builded it,
Be glory evermore.
Is the world a Man, love,
A giant broad and bare,
Limbs the formless forces,
Blood the streaming air?
If it be a Man, love,
Filling void and earth,
Then to Him whose nostrils quickened,
Praise: an awful mirth.
Is the world a Song, love,
That a spirit sings,
Full of sun and seasons,
Tales and living things?
If it be a Song, love,
We may lie and heed,
Then to lute and string and singer
Be a praise indeed.
– (c.1894)
