They say He's far remote, unseen,

Too austere and beyond our vision keen.

Ah, yet when I passed thru the tunnel of leaves

An saw the hill-top green grassy orchid-vase

(Adorned with a doll temple

Little, artistic, grand and simple)

Hanging from the big skiey roof

High amidst the clouds, aloof

From din and uproars loud

Of aimless rushing crowds,

I asked myself this and that—

Who made this, Who made that?

And I found my answer

From His servitors, O everywhere,

O everywhere;

The painted screens of varying light and shade

Did drop, go up or fade.

And the changing charming scenic players

Did speak of Him, entertain and disappear.

Rows of motley costumed leaves did stand

And dance in tune with the playing breeze

Or fitful thunder-band.

The turbaned soldier trees.

Serious, mystic, grim,

Merging from colossal castle of mounts

Stood in the distant dim to declare

"Hark! He's very near; Wake, He's very near."

And soon with the nightly curtain fall

They'd vanish all.

By the flower-fringed lawn strolling

A song came wafting—

"Is it a nightingale or a fairy voice?"

Nay, coloratura of celestial choice!

I listened and listened and listened

And when I thought the song was best

And the voice reached the supreme test,

Came whistling a deeper, deepest mystic note

Straight from her soul, from the Spirit remote.

Around the tiny temple

Oft the listening breeze long drank

The sweet music of Homer,

And her soul-solacing song.

And in wild joy would call

The wren, the whippoorwill and all

To this peace-bathed pure God-altar,

Where man's beauty-touches rare

Did soften Nature's scenic painting bare.

Of all the august guests

A few forget-me-nots

From unknown somewhere

Came peeping thru the little temple door

To remind us, said she,

"Love not My things, more than Me.

Thru little forget-me-nots thy Father

Will speak to thee ever, ever.

No never forget Me, O never, never,

Amelita de Sul Monte and Homer.

Remember Me ever, ever."