The earth is holy ground since thou art born
And walk'st her clay.
At thy angel tread a new-lit sun at morn
Wakes every day.
All pathways at thy footfall break to flowers
Of harmony
And the winds repeat thy hallowed name for hours
In ecstasy.
The evening-star met in thy eyes of flame
Her love's own fire,
And greeting thee the silent moon became
Transformed to a lyre.
Rainbows descend below, thy robes to dye,
O ageless Gleam!
A-heave with hue and vision the poets cry:
"Comes true, our Dream !"