Classic Poem

'T IS sweet, O God, to steal away,
Before the morning sun is high,
Upon some frosty winter's day,
When not a cloud is on the sky,
And all the world is white below,
Knee-deep with freshly-fallen snow, —

To steal into the silent woods
Before the trees are quite awake,
And watch them in their snowy hoods
A rough-and-ready toilet make,
When in the little breezes creep
And rouse them gently from their sleep.

'Tis sweet, O God, to kneel among
The snow-bent trees, and lift the mind
Above the boughs where birds have sung,
Above the pathways of the wind,
Into the very heart of space, —
To where the angels see Thy face.

For while my spirit mounts in prayer,
So keen becomes its mystic sight,
That through the sunshine in the air
I see a new and heavenly light,
And all the bowed woods seem to be
Acknowledging the Trinity.