Not in the solitude
Alone may man talk with heaven, or see
Only in savage wood
And sunny valley, the present Deity;
Or only hear his voice
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.
Even here do I behold
Your steps, Almighty!—here, amidst the crowd,
Through the great city rolled,
With everlasting murmur deep and loud—
Choking the ways that wind
Among the proud piles, the work of humankind.
Your golden sunshine comes
From the high heavens, and on their work lies,
And lights their homes;
For them you fill with air the unbound skies,
And give them the stores
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.
Your spirit is around,
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;
And this eternal sound—
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng—
Like the resounding sea,
Or like the rainy hurricane, speaks of you.
And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the brackish brine,
Hushing its billowing breast—
The quiet of that moment too is yours;
It breathes of him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.