Last week we attended an outdoor Sunday service in which the focus was honoring and respecting God’s creation. Toward the end, I was reminded of a poem I thought we had posted here, only to learn I had done so on a different website. On Friday’s post at Internet Monk, there was a statement that “American readers will refuse to read poetry.” Reading the poem there, I was reminded again of the one below. I know nothing of the author of this poem, which I had memorized when I was much younger; in fact I had always thought it was written by Tennyson. Some conservative Christians will bristle at the phrase “Mother Earth,” but I love the premise of the first verse and last verse especially.
IN THE WOODS
Scott, Frederick George
THIS is God's house--the blue sky is the ceiling, This wood the soft green carpet for His feet, Those hills His stairs, down which the brooks come stealing With baby laughter, making earth more sweet. And here His friends come, clouds, and soft winds sighing, And little birds whose throats pour forth their love, And spring and summer, and the white snow lying Pencilled with shadows of bare boughs above. And here come sunbeams through the green leaves straying, And shadows from the storm-clouds over- drawn, And warm, hushed nights, when Mother Earth is praying So late that her moon-candle burns ill dawn. Sweet house of God, sweet earth, so full of pleasure, I enter at thy gates in storm or calm; And every sunbeam is a joy or pleasure, And every cloud a solace and a balm.