O weeping hopes, O memories beyond tears,
⁠O many and murmuring years,
O sounds far off in time and visions far,
⁠O sorrow with thy star,
And joy with all thy beacons; ye that mourn,
⁠And ye whose light is born;
O fallen faces, and O souls arisen,
⁠Praise him from tomb and prison,
Praise him from heaven and sunlight; and ye floods,
⁠And windy waves of woods;
Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes
⁠And happier hillside brakes,
Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod
⁠Fields golden from their god,
Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none
⁠Sees his face in the sun,
Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses;
⁠And, barren of his tresses,
Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined,
⁠That no men break or bind,
And myrtles long forgetful of the sword,
⁠And olives unadored,
Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay,
⁠Praise him; and ye as they,
Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains
⁠That feed the purple plains,
O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn,
⁠O cloud and fire and dawn;
Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines,
⁠Banners of blowing pines,