It May Indeed Be Fantasy When I Essay To Draw From All Created Things Deep, Heartfelt, Inward Joy That Closely Clings; And Trace In Leaves And Flowers That Round Me Lie Lessons Of Love And Earnest Piety. So Let It Be; And If The Wide World Rings In Mock Of This Belief, It Brings Nor Fear, Nor Grief, Nor Vain Perplexity. So Will I Build My Altar In The Fields, And The Blue Sky My Fretted Dome Shall Be, And The Sweet Fragrance That The Wild Flower Yields Shall Be The Incense I Will Yield To Thee, Thee Only God! And Thou Shalt Not Despise Even Me, The Priest Of This Poor Sacrifice.