Each in His Own Tongue

(1902) by William Herbert Carruth

A fire-mist and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jelly-fish and a saurian, And caves where the cave-men dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty And a face turned from the clod— Some call it Evolution, And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high— And all over upland and lowland The charm of the golden-rod— Some of us call it Autumn And others call it God. Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in— Come from the mystic ocean, Whose rim no foot has trod,— Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. A picket frozen on duty, A mother starved for her brood, Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway plod,— Some call it Consecration, And others call it God.