I blink in wonderment of God’s art,
of which we glimpse but a hint,
but to amaze and rejoice and lift
one’s brush, one’s voice, one’s pen.To praise Him, to please Him, for Him.
So humbly, woefully, artfully we try.Why art but to remind us all of His glory?

And for all this, nature is never spent;
    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.