Mary Howitt

Priestess of Nature! in the solemn woods
     And by the sullen sea, whose ceaseless road
     Speaks of God’s majesty for evermore,
And where the cataracts dash their shattered floods
Down to the iris-girdled gulfs which yawn
     Eternally beneath, thy hand hath reared
     Altars whereon no blood-stain hath appeared—
But there, at dewy eve, or kindling dawn,
Meek-hearted children, with their offerings
     Of buds or bursting flowers, together kneel
     In gladdest worship, till their spirits feel
A new and holier baptism; while the springs
Of joy are opened, and their waters flow
Forth to the laughing light, exulting as they go!