Where the long valley slopes away
Five miles across the dreaming day
A maple sends a scarlet prayer
Into the still autumnal air,
Three golden-smouldering hickories
Are fanned to flame beneath the breeze
And one great crimson oak tree fires
The sky-line over the Concord spires.
In worship mystically sweet
The rimy asters at my feet
And spiring gentian bells that burn
Blue incense in an azure urn
Breathe softly from the aspiring sod:
"This is our utmost. Take it, God,—
This chant of green, this prayer of blue.
This is the best thy clay can do."
*****
O lonely heart and widowed brain
Sick with philosophies that strain
Body from spirit, flesh from soul,—
Worship with asters and be whole;
Live simply as still water flows
Till soul shall border brain so close
No blade of wit can thrust between
And hearts are pure as grass is green;
Pray with the maple tree and trust
The ancient ritual of the dust.