As, down in the sunless retreats of the ocean,

Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,

So, deep in my soul, the still prayer of devotion,

Unheard by the world, rises, silent, to Thee,

My God! silent, to Thee,—

Pure, warm, silent, to Thee.

As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,

The needle points faithfully o’er the dim sea,

So, dark when I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,

The hope of my spirit turns, trembling, to Thee,

My God! trembling, to Thee,—

True, sure, trembling, to Thee.