The Hand

Lo, it locks

The hill flower in the rocks,

Skeins the willow,

Manes the billow,

Sets the cedar straight,

Paints the she-bird's mate,

Hangs the apple on its tree,

Steers the cloud-ship on her sea,

Fires the dewdrop and, afar,

The haughty rondure of the star,

Gives the loosed wind his track,

Brings the summer back,

Binds the morning's crown,

And lets the darkness down:

So doth the Hand, the Power,

That giveth thee thine hour.