Mother, whose great love dries the tears
Of every little weed that grows,
And makes a living butterfly
Of the dead petals of the rose,
And of the almond blossoms bright
In the fair vale of Rousillon
That tremble in the scented breeze
Blown downward from the Pyrenees,
Lo, I adore thee, Mistress Sun!
Beneath thy kiss the honey ripes,
Thy blessing is on every brow;
In every flower's little heart,
In every hovel, there art thou!
The meanest creatures in God's world
Share in thy beneficial fire,
But, even as a mother's love,
Divided, thou art still entire.
With humble pride I chant thy praise,
My priesthood thou wilt not disdain,
Hast thou not bathed thy radiant face
In water gathered from the rain,
Made blue with curious dye, wherein
Fine linen is made clean from stain?
Thy last farewell is often thrown
Upon a lowly window pane.
The yellow sunflower turns to thee
Her radiant countenance in prayer,
My brother on the steeple boasts
Of golden plumes when thou art there;
And gliding through the linden tree
Thou draw'st strange circles on the ground
Too delicate to tread upon,
Save for some sprite in silver gowned.
Thou mak'st a rare enamelled thing
Of the brown pitcher cracked and old,
The common tools of farm and yard
Are by thy radiance aureoled.
And, where but now a rag was seen,
A glorious banner is unrolled,
The hayrick and its little mate,
The beehive, wear a hood of gold.
Glory to thee upon the fields,
And glory on the vineyards high!
Thrice blessed thou art upon the door,
Thrice blessed on herb and grass and sky.
I bless thee in the lizard's eyes,
And on the pinions of the swan.
Thou speak'st to us in little things
As in the vastness of the dawn.
Thy mandate, Sun, has called to life,
The sombre sister of the light
Who humbly cowers at the feet
Of all things shining, all things bright.
For thou hast given unto them
A shadow, dancing like an elf,
That often seems unto the eye
More lovely than the thing itself.
I worship thee: thy holy light
Charms lilies from the crusty sod,
Thy presence sanctifies the brook,
In every bush thou show'st us God!
Thy splendor makes the tree divine,
And lends new wonder to the star,
Save for thy love, O Mother Sun,
All things would seem but what they are!
Of every little weed that grows,
And makes a living butterfly
Of the dead petals of the rose,
And of the almond blossoms bright
In the fair vale of Rousillon
That tremble in the scented breeze
Blown downward from the Pyrenees,
Lo, I adore thee, Mistress Sun!
Beneath thy kiss the honey ripes,
Thy blessing is on every brow;
In every flower's little heart,
In every hovel, there art thou!
The meanest creatures in God's world
Share in thy beneficial fire,
But, even as a mother's love,
Divided, thou art still entire.
With humble pride I chant thy praise,
My priesthood thou wilt not disdain,
Hast thou not bathed thy radiant face
In water gathered from the rain,
Made blue with curious dye, wherein
Fine linen is made clean from stain?
Thy last farewell is often thrown
Upon a lowly window pane.
The yellow sunflower turns to thee
Her radiant countenance in prayer,
My brother on the steeple boasts
Of golden plumes when thou art there;
And gliding through the linden tree
Thou draw'st strange circles on the ground
Too delicate to tread upon,
Save for some sprite in silver gowned.
Thou mak'st a rare enamelled thing
Of the brown pitcher cracked and old,
The common tools of farm and yard
Are by thy radiance aureoled.
And, where but now a rag was seen,
A glorious banner is unrolled,
The hayrick and its little mate,
The beehive, wear a hood of gold.
Glory to thee upon the fields,
And glory on the vineyards high!
Thrice blessed thou art upon the door,
Thrice blessed on herb and grass and sky.
I bless thee in the lizard's eyes,
And on the pinions of the swan.
Thou speak'st to us in little things
As in the vastness of the dawn.
Thy mandate, Sun, has called to life,
The sombre sister of the light
Who humbly cowers at the feet
Of all things shining, all things bright.
For thou hast given unto them
A shadow, dancing like an elf,
That often seems unto the eye
More lovely than the thing itself.
I worship thee: thy holy light
Charms lilies from the crusty sod,
Thy presence sanctifies the brook,
In every bush thou show'st us God!
Thy splendor makes the tree divine,
And lends new wonder to the star,
Save for thy love, O Mother Sun,
All things would seem but what they are!