The birds on branches sing

Thy tenderness and love; Wide flush the hills; the air is balm: Devotion's calm our bosom fills.

3 Then come, in robes of light,
The summer's flaming days,
The sun, thine image bright,
Thy majesty displays;
And oft thy voice in thunder rolls:
But still our souls in thee rejoice.

4 In autumn, a rich feast

Thy common bounty gives To man and bird and beast,

And every thing that lives. Thy liberal care, at morn and noon And harvest moon, our lips declare.

5 In winter, awful thou,

With storms around thee cast:
The leafless forests bow

Beneath thy northern blast.
While tempests lower, to thee, dread King,
We homage bring, and own thy power.