No dead mechanism moves the stars, or lifts the tides, or calls the flowers from their sleep; truly this is the garment of Deity, and here is the awful splendour of the Perpetual Presence.

It is the old story of the Greek Proteus translated into universal speech.

It is the song of the Persian poet: The sullen mountain, and the bee that hums, A flying joy, about its flowery base, Each from the same immediate fountain comes, And both compose one evanescent race.
There is no difference in the texture fine That's woven through organic rock and grass, And that which thrills man's heart in every line, As o'er its web God's weaving fingers pass.
The timid flower that decks the fragrant field, The daring star that tints the solemn dome, From one propulsive force to being reeled; Both keep one law and have a single home..