LAUS DEO

In her vast church of glimmering blue,

Gray-stoled from feet to chin,

Her dark locks beaded with the dew,

The nun-like dawn comes in:

At once the hills put on their spencers

Of purple, swinging streaming censers

Of mist before the God of Day

Who goes with pomp his way.

With sapphire draperies of light

Is hung the sombre pines;

Filling each valley, every height

With sacerdotal lines —

Shrines, where, like priests with worship vestured,

The forests bow and, heavenly gestured,

Lift high the chalice of the sun,

Intoning, “Night is done!”