If thou wert not, the sunflower would not turn,
And silver huntress of the candled night
Would dim her gleaming paths of seaborne light.
The emerald tracery of maiden fern
Would wither knowing thou had ceased to burn,
And suddenly the strong would seem the right
To our more undiscerning inner sight
And earth would yield the ashes that we earn.

Thou art the universal turning power
Of earth, of sun, of moon, of starlight vast,
And thine the might unfolding every flower;
It is in thee man finds his peace at last;
For, whilst thou art, hope gleams to light the eye,
And sunbeams fleck the grim grey storm-tossed sky.