Prayer Moves The Arm Which

Here Hyacinths Of Heavenly Blue, Shook Their Rich Tresses To The Morn.

The Dove, On Silver Pinions, Winged Her Peaceful Way.

Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving Tent, A Day's March Nearer Home.

Dark-green And Gemm'd With Flowers Of Snow, With Close Uncrowded Branches Spread Not Proudly High, Nor Meanly Low, A Graceful Myrtle Rear'd Its Head.

Prayer Moves The Arm Which Moves The World, And Brings Salvation Down.