Wild air, world-Mothering air,
nestling me everywhere,
that each eyelash or hair
girdles; goes home betwixt
the fleeciest, frailest-flixed
snowflake; that's fairly mixed
with, riddles, and is rife
in every least thing's life;
this needful, never spent,
and nursing element;
this air, which, by life's law,
my lung must draw and draw
now but to breath its praise,
minds me in many ways
of Her Who Mothers each new grace
that does now reach our race.
By Her, I say, we are wound
with mercy, round and round,
as if with air, wondrous robe,
mantling our darling globe.
Above me, round me lie
with sweet and scarless sky;
stir in my ears, speak there
of Your love, O live air,
world-Mothering air, air wild
fold home, fast fold thy child.