Oh, that my words become sylvan!, Yea shadowed
A retreat from the glamour of the day.
Make them stream of sunlight, but gently,
Piercesomely; filtering through the gloom,
But that atom which be right for the soothe
Of the weary. Oh, let my words be dew-covered
And moonlit, yea, and even crisply cool
As a young autumn, thereby becoming fit
For the soothe of all men.

Oh, let my words become sylvan! Yea,
For beneath His beloved hand doth the stuff flow,
Which creates upon the canvas of Eternity- -
The pageantry of Time. Oh, humbly
would I tongue the words that I would weave
Into a garment for my beloved.