THE sea is the Lord's cathedral.
Its dome is the vault on high;
The columns that support it
Are the mountains which touch the sky.
The carvings that adorn it
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In the changing clouds are wrought;
The incense that breathes throughout it
By the southern winds is brought
Its altar is built of icebergs;
Of snow are its drapings white;
The waxen candles upon it
Are the streamers of Northern Light,
The sun is the priest who serves it
In his vestment of gold-tinged cloud.
The prayer that he offers before it
In the whirlwind he mutters aloud.
And man, in its contemplation,
Bends lowly to the ground,
To worship the Master Mason,
As seen in his works around.
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