Father! Thy wonders do not singly stand,
Nor far removed where feet have seldom
strayed;
Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
In marvels rich to Thine own sons displayed;
In finding Thee are all things round us found;
In losing Thee are all things lost beside;
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices
sound;
And to our eyes the vision is denied;
We wander in the country far remote,
Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell;
Or on the records of past greatness dote,
And for a buried soul the living sell;
While on our path bewildered falls the night
That ne'er returns us to the fields or light.
by Jones Very.
