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by Stephen Crane
In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.
   "O Master that movest the wind with a
     finger,
   "Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
   "Grant that we may run swiftly across
      the world
   "To huddle in worship at Thy feet."

In the morning
A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,
And the little black cities were apparent.
   "O Master that knowest the meaning of raindrops,
   "Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
   "Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
   "That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun."
In the evening
The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
  "O Master,
  "Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds,
  "Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks.
  "Thous only needest eternal patience;
  "We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord—
  "Humble, idle, futile peaks."

In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffles the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.

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