As in faith's hoariest histories men read, The strong man bore at need Through roaring rapids when all heaven was wild The likeness of a child That still waxed greater and heavier as he trod, And altered, and was God. Praise him, O winds that move the molten air, O light of days that were, And light of days that shall be; land and sea, And heaven and Italy: Praise him, O storm and summer, shore and wave, O skies and every grave; O weeping hopes, O memories beyond tears, O many and murmuring years, O sounds far off in time and visions far, O sorrow with thy star, And joy with all thy beacons; ye that mourn, And ye whose light is born; O fallen faces, and O souls arisen, Praise him from tomb and prison, Praise him from heaven and sunlight; and ye floods, And windy waves of woods; Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes And happier hillside brakes, Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod Fields golden from their god, Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none Sees his face in the sun, Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses; And, barren of his tresses, Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined, That no men break or bind, And myrtles long forgetful of the sword, And olives unadored, Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay, Praise him; and ye as they, Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains That feed the purple plains, O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn, O cloud and fire and dawn; Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines, Banners of blowing pines, Standards of stormy snows, flags of light leaves, Three wherewith Freedom weaves One ensign that once woven and once unfurled Makes day of all a world, Makes blind their eyes who knew not, and outbraves The waste of iron waves; Ye fields of yellow fullness, ye fresh fountains, And mists of many mountains; Ye moons and seasons, and ye days and nights; Ye starry-headed heights, And gorges melting sunward from the snow, And all strong streams that flow, Tender as tears, and fair as faith, and pure As hearts made sad and sure At once by many sufferings and one love; O mystic deathless dove Held to the heart of earth and in her hands Cherished, O lily of lands, White rose of time, dear dream of praises past-- For such as these thou wast, That art as eagles setting to the sun, As fawns that leap and run, As a sword carven with keen floral gold, Sword for an armed god's hold, Flower for a crowned god's forehead--O our land, Reach forth thine holiest hand, O mother of many sons and memories, Stretch out thine hand to his