It may indeed be only phantasy
That I essay to draw from all created things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings
And find in leaves and flowers that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest piety.
So let it be, - and though the whole world rings
In mock of this belief; to me it brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
So will I rear my altar in the fields
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense that I offer thee -
Thee, only God, and Thou will not despise
Even me, the priest, of this poor sacrifice.
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834
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