When soaking heavy through,
The mind too clambers wet,
And every little barrier
And fence is scarcely met,
Floods make small the petty man,
Make large the stoic throng,
For bursting pipes do call from men,
To put away their song.

O elevated sky - the dazzle and the brilliance,
The lilting lilac to the sunflower spills,
All cast on steely teal of brooding cloud,
What fine descent as though a crown on weary heads below,
Such light to fascinate falls on a cross,
A quiet field 'neath spire embodied praise,
The grave is still as on all fine autumnal eves tonight,
The beauty harrows in the death. O man,
O man, o finite child, go on, go on,
Remember that your time falls weakly on the earthen stage,
That you are dust and yet so saved,
That you are fleeting yet so clothed,
In robes imperished sewn from liquid gold and strength etern',
O man, take heart, the light shines even on the quiet fields.

Awed and fizzled out I stand,
When I begin to see afresh,
How study of mathematics too can praise,
How good logic with its taxonomy,
Cry out the wonders of the Logos.

Sorrow upon sorrow flows free,
A burning root of love beyond measure,
He lifts a branch to me.
I am burst vermillion gold,
With open arms an ember received,
Amber rose and molten glass,
What passion my Lord has for thee!
Forever in His eyes you stand,
Day and night, the poor and lowly.