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The Living Temple - The Atlantic

  Not in the world of light alone,
  Where God has built his blazing throne,
  Nor yet alone in earth below,
  With belted seas that come and go,
  And endless isles of sunlit green,
  Is all thy Maker's glory seen:
  Look in upon thy wondrous frame,—
  Eternal wisdom still the same!

  The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves
  Flows murmuring through its hidden caves
  Whose streams of brightening purple rush
  Fired with a new and livelier blush,
  While all their burden of decay
  The ebbing current steals away,
  And red with Nature's flame they start
  From the warm fountains of the heart.

  No rest that throbbing slave may ask,
  Forever quivering o'er his task,
  While far and wide a crimson jet
  Leaps forth to fill the woven net
  Which in unnumbered crossing tides
  The flood of burning life divides,
  Then kindling each decaying part
  Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.

  But warmed with that unchanging flame
  Behold the outward moving frame,
  Its living marbles jointed strong
  With glistening band and silvery thong,
  And linked to reason's guiding reins
  By myriad rings in trembling chains,
  Each graven with the threaded zone
  Which claims it as the master's own.

  See how yon beam of seeming white
  Is braided out of seven-hued light,
  Yet in those lucid gloves no ray
  By any chance shall break astray.
  Hark how the rolling surge of sound,
  Arches and spirals circling round,
  Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear
  With music it is heaven to hear.

  Then mark the cloven sphere that holds
  All thoughts in its mysterious folds,
  That feels sensation's faintest thrill
  And flashes for the sovereign will;
  Think on the stormy world that dwells
  Locked in its dim and clustering cells!
  The lightning gleams of power it sheds
  Along its hollow glassy threads!

  O Father! grant thy love divine
  To make these mystic temples thine!
  When wasting age and wearying strife
  Have sapped the leaning walls of life,
  When darkness gathers over all,
  And the last tottering pillars fall,
  Take the poor dust thy mercy warms
  And mould it into heavenly forms!