Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

THOU art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see:

Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee:

Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are Thine.

When day with farewell beam delays

Among the opening clouds of even,

And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven,—

Those hues, that make the sun’s decline

So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,

O’ershadows all the earth and skies,

Like some dark, beauteous bird whose plume

Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes,—

That sacred gloom, those fires divine,

So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine.

When youthful Spring; around us breathes,

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh,

And every flower the Summer wreathes

Is born beneath that kindling eye,—

Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are Thine.