The Voice Of Creation
A wrinkle in the lonely landscape,
Colossal peaks of icy granite,
A million trees on steeply hills,
The song of winds; who sings it?
Below, amidst the waving grasses,
A flattened valley lies as if unseen,
Unnoticed by the hurried traveler,
It speaks, yet goes on as if unheard.
A voice is heard so soft, yet so alive,
The valley calls, the distant cliffs reply,
The trees and hills and land converse,
The mountains call, the valley answers.
When clouds and mist hang very low,
The mountaintops grow very silent,
Their mighty peaks are hidden now,
The valley strengthens for a moment.
But alas the glory is soon passed on,
For when the winter clouds have lifted,
The evening sun reveals its secret,
Again the mountains claim the prize.
A million trees all draped with white,
They droop beneath their dress of bounty,
The rocky peaks are bathed in sunlight,
They glint with new found beauty.
When the sun recedes beyond the peaks,
The valley rests in tranquil darkness,
Quiet reigns, the Voice of God is heard,
Peace is felt beneath the shining stars.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (The Voice Of Creation by Jesse Fast )
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