A Sermon

Midsummer, 1867.

We have heard many sermons, you and I,

And many more may hear,

When sitting quiet in cathedral nave,

With folded palms and faces meek and grave;-

But few like this one, dear.

We ofttimes watch together ‘fore the veil,

With reverent, gleaming eyes,

While priestly hands are busy with the folds,-

And pant to see the holy place, which holds

Life’s dreadest mysteries.

We watch weak, foolish fingers straying o’er

The broidered boss, to grasp

Vaguely at some small end of thread, and twist

And shake the glorious pattern into mist,

And leave us nought to clasp.

We watch, with eyes dilated, some strong hand

Of nerve and muscle, trace

The grand, faint outlines, erewhile undefined

To our slow earth-enfolded sense, and find

The great design-the shadow from behind-

Dawning before our face.

But seldom do we see, dear, you and I,

The pattern melt in light,

And all the shine flow out on us, uncheck’d-

With eyes of soul and not of intellect-

As we did see that night.

It was a summer-night-the sun was low,

But overlaid the sea,

And made gold-crystals of the wet sea-sand,

And drew our shadows short upon the strand

That stretched out shallowly.

It was a Sunday night-far off we heard

The solemn vesper-chime

From some grey wind-swept steeple by the shore,

Chanting “For ev-er-more! for ev-er-more!”

While the deep sea beat time.

We wandered far that night, dear, you and I,

We wandered out of reach,-

Until the golden distances grew grey,

And narrowed in the glory, as it lay

‘Mid horizon and beach.

We wandered far along the lonely waste,

Where seldom foot had trod;

The world behind us dared not to intrude-

The summer silence and the solitude

Were only filled with God.

We sat down on the sand there, you and I,

We sat down awed and dumb,

And watched the fiery circle fall and fall

Through solemn folds of purple, and the small

Soft ripples go and come.

There was not wind enough to stir the reeds

Around us, nor to curl

The sheeny, dimpled surface of the deep;

The waters murmured low, as half in sleep,

With measured swish and swirl.

Two sea-birds came and dabbled in the pools,

And cried their plaintive cry,

As their strong wings swept o’er us as we sat

(No profanation of the stillness that,

But added sanctity).

They flecked the crimson shallows with black streaks,

Low-wheeling to and fro,

Crying their bold, sweet cry, as knowing well

It was a place where God, not man, did dwell-

A father, not a foe.

*

Ah, we hear many sermons, you and I-

The poor words fall and drown;

But this, whose speech was silence, this has stirred

The stream of years,-and aye it will be heard

As when that sun went down!

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• Not the Pilot. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Not My Enemies Ever Invade Me. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Not Heaving from My Ribb’d Breast Only. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Not Heat Flames up and Consumes. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• No Labor-Saving Machine. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Night on The Prairies. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Native Moments. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Mystic Trumpeter, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Myself and Mine. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• My Picture-Gallery. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Mother and Babe. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Miracles. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Mediums. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Me Imperturbe. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Mannahatta. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
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• Look Down, Fair Moon. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Longings for Home. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Long, too Long, O Land! by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Long I Thought that Knowledge. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman

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