| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 1280. Choir Practice |
| | | By Ernest Crosby |
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| AS I sit on a log here in the woods among the clean-faced beeches, | |
| The trunks of the trees seem to me like the pipes of a mighty organ, | |
| Thrilling my soul with wave on wave of the harmonies of the universal anthem— | |
| The grand, divine, eonic “I am” chorus. | |
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| The red squirrel scolding in yonder hickory tree, | 5 |
| The flock of blackbirds chattering in council overhead, | |
| The monotonous crickets in the unseen meadow, | |
| Even the silent ants travelling their narrow highway with enormous burdens at my feet— | |
| All, like choristers, sing in the green-arched cathedral | |
| The heaven-prompted mystery, “I am, I am.” | 10 |
| The rays of sunshine shoot down through the branches and touch the delicate ferns and the blades of coarse grass piercing up through last year’s dead leaves, | |
| And all cry out together, “I am.” | |
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| We used to call upon all these works of the Lord to praise the Lord, and they did praise Him. | |
| But now they praise no longer, for they have been taught a new song, and with one accord they chant the “I am.” | |
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| I too would learn the new music, and I begin hesitatingly to take part in the world-wide choir practice. | 15 |
| After all these quiet private rehearsals, | |
| At last in my own place you may look for me also in the final, vast, eternal chorus. | |
| And we, all of us, as you see us, are but mouth-pieces. | |
| Who is it that behind and beneath sings ever through us, now whispering, now thundering, “I am”? | |
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