Mountain Pagan's Hymn

Should I take you to my temples
You would find no pulpit there
And little congregation
To yawn or nod or stare.

My churches have no altars,
They’re run straight through with brooks,
Green-stained windows of new leaves
And mossy pews of rocks.

Trees my o’er arching cathedrals
In every hollow, cove and glen
And so I worship dutifully
Down where the stream bed bends.

The God’s voices are a mountain breeze,
A mountain stream the sweetest choir
And my silent worship of silent prayer
Fills me with strange and holy fire.