It was a great full moon
That hung low in the west,
But the dear little birds sang everywhere,
And the unborn dayspring blest.
Not one singing bird could be seen,
But every bush and brier
Was astir with the sound of the music they made,
That sweet invisible choir.
The hills in the wonderful light
Sat listening, grave and mild,
And they folded the plains in their gentle arms
As a mother might her child.
And high in the still, white air,
All in the soft moonshine,
They rose and rose to a pearly peak
Like a faraway holy shrine.
If this can be with the world
In the setting of the moon,
With what riot of joy will it welcome Thee back,
O Sun that art coming soon!
From Mountain Breezes: The Collected Poems of Amy Carmichael (Fort Washington, PA: Christian Literature Crusade, 1999), 21.