⁠With mornings of a vernal sphere,
Where down the trail-furrow with his plow
⁠He strides—the Yankee Pioneer:

There ever the world is new to his eyes
⁠That lift from valor-conquered loam
Where rose Sierras ever rise
⁠Sublime beyond the fields of home;

There ever the world is a new world
⁠Of labor towards another day;
Ever the Pilgrim's breath is whirled
⁠To the vast horizons far away;

And ever there, as he flicks the dew
⁠From an oldish tattered book and sings,
His psalm goes up forever new—
⁠Goes up on whirring of April wings:

How beautiful upon the mountains
⁠Are the lambs of the Lord in their cloudy fleece!
How beautiful upon the mountains
⁠Are the feet of Him who bringeth Peace!