Where sunlit waters silver-spill,
The pines stand watch upon the hill;
The tumbled stones in quiet lay,
And greet the hush of breaking day.
The tide draws in with gentle hand,
To smooth the edges of the land;
While spruce and fern, in seaward air,
Breathe out a psalm as soft as prayer.
O sea, O stone, O steadfast tree,
You keep the Maker’s poetry;
And I, who pause upon this stair,
Am blessed to find His glory there.