A quiet heart, submissive, meek,
Father do thou bestow;
Which more than granted will not seek
To have, or give, or know.
Each green hill then will hold its gift
Forth to my joying eyes;
The mountains blue will then uplift
My spirit to the skies.
The falling water then will sound
As if for me alone;
Nay, will not blessing more abound
That many hear its tone?
The trees their murmuring forth will send,
The birds send forth their song;
The waving grass its tribute lend,
Sweet music to prolong.
The water-lily's shining cup,
The trumpet of the bee,
The thousand odours floating up,
The many-shaded sea;
The rising sun's imprinted tread
Upon the eastward waves;
The gold and blue clouds over head;
The weed from far sea-caves;
All lovely things from south to north,
All harmonies that be,
Each will its soul of joy send forth
To enter into me.
And thus the wide earth I shall hold,
A perfect gift of thine;
Richer by these, a thousandfold,
Than if broad lands were mine.