A firemist and a planet, 
	a crystal and a cell,
A starfish and a saurian, 
	and caves where ancients dwelt;
The sense of law and beauty,
	a face turned from the sod —
Some call it evolution, 
	and others call it God.

Haze on the far horizon,
	the infinite tender sky,
The ripe, rich tints of cornfields,
	and wild geese sailing high;
And over high and lowland,
	the charm of goldenrod —
Some people call it autumn,
	and others call it God.

Like tides on crescent sea-beach,
	when moon’s so new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
	come welling, surging in,
Come from the mystic ocean
	whose rim no foot has trod —
Some people call it longing,
	and others call it God.

A sentry lone and frozen,
	a mother starved for her brood,
And Socrates’ dread hemlock,
	and Jesus on the rood;
And millions, who, though nameless,
	the straight, hard pathway trod —
Some call it consecration,
	and others call it God.
