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Ye realms of beauty from afar,
What speak ye to the saddened soul?
What is the message of each star
As ever ceaselessly ye roll?
Thus do ye answer: "We declare
God's glory; and to you 'tis given
To cast on him your every care,
For he hath wound the clock of heaven."
  
Ye hoary hills which have looked down
On all the centuries of time,
Have felt their touch without a frown,
And with indifference sublime,
What would ye speak, if understood,
Of life with all its woes and ills?
'Tis this: to all they work for good
Who love the maker of the hills.