The sun is a great astrolabe
That measures time for me;
The shadows from the tree-tops weave
Some song of certainty.

A breeze slips through the fragrant pine
And moves the meadow’s head;
The stream, it bubbles through the line
Where skies are soft with red.

So God spins softly for each heart
His tender world-degree;
In joy and beauty we all part
To love eternity.

• Joyce Kilmer