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     Their white locks bowing to the sand,
The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,
     Their gifts of pearl they bring,
And all the listening hills of earth
     Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends her incense up
     From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
     She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills
     Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar-curtains of the hills
     Are sunset's purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud,
     Or low with sobs of pain,—
The thunder-organ of the cloud,
     The dropping tears of rain.

With drooping head and branches crossed
     The twilight forest grieves,
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost
     From all its sunlit leaves.

The blue sky is the temple's arch,
     Its transept earth and air,
The music of its starry march
     The chorus of a prayer.

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Pentecost (1)
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