A NIKKO SHRINE

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.