Henry Septimus Sutton (1825–1901)

VI.
JUNE.

THE DAY with light its genial self engirds;

The trees are glad with fluty voices dear:—

“Thou art my God!”—When I say o’er those words,

I see a light beyond the day, and hear

Voices far richer than the songs of birds.

Mine eyes with happy tears then overswim;

The thoughts I have are sweetest that can be;

My mind’s a cup with love above the brim;

Fine incense circles round whate’er I see;

In every sound I hear a holy hymn.

Thou art my God! Thou, Father, Thou my Friend;

My Saviour Thou, the eternal Lord of all!

O thought which doth all other thought transcend,

Beneath whose stress well may I prostrate fall

In love and wonder which should know no end!