Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving Tent, A

Eagle Of Flowers! I See Thee Stand, And On The Sun's Noon-glory Gaze; With Eye Like His, Thy Lids Expand, And Fringe Their Disk With Golden Rays: Though Fix'd On Earth, In Darkness Rooted There, Light Is Thy Element, Thy Dwelling Air, Thy Prospect Heaven.

There Is A Flower, A Little Flower With Silver Crest And Golden Eye, That Welcomes Every Changing Hour, And Weathers Every Sky.

Prayer Is The Soul's Sincere Desire, Uttered Or Unexpressed, The Motion Of A Hidden Fire That Trembles In The Breast. Prayer Is The Burden Of A Sigh, The Falling Of A Tear, The Upward Glancing Of An Eye When None But God Is Near.

Blue Thou Art, Intensely Blue; Flower, Whence Came Thy Dazzling Hue?

If God Hath Made This World So Fair, Where Sin And Death Abound, How Beautiful Beyond Compare Will Paradise Be Found!