My Song For Thee

Ah, how do I to build
Me up my song for thee?
Yea, and tell unto thee of Him.
I'd shew unto thee His loving,
I'd shew unto thee His very face.
Do then to list to this my song.
Early hours, strip o' thy pure,
For 'tis the heart of Him.
Earth, breathe deep thy bosom,
Yea, and rock the sea,
For 'tis the breath of Him.
Fields, burst ope thy sod,
And fling thee loose thy store,
For 'tis the robe of Him.
Skies, shed thou thy blue,
The depth of heaven,
For 'tis the eyes of Him.
Winter's white, stand thou thick,
And shed thy soft o'er earth,
For 'tis the touch of Him.
Spring, shed thou thy loosened
Laughter of the streams,
For 'tis the voice of Him.
Noon's heat, and tire o' earth,
Shed thou of rest to His,
For 'tis the rest of Him.
Evil days of earth,
Stride thou on and smite,
For 'tis the frown of Him.
Earth, this, the chant o' me
May end, as doth the works o' man,
But hark ye; Earth holdeth all
That hath been;
And Spring's ope, and sowing
O' the Winter's tide,
Shall bear the Summer's full
Of that, that be no more.
For, at the waking o' the Spring,
The wraiths o' blooms agone
Shall rise them up from out the mold,
And speak to thee of Him.
Thus, the songs o' me,
The works o' thee,
The Earth's own blooms-are Him.