To him who in the love of bounteous Nature,
Sweet concord holds amid her varied thought,
She shows,—the grand old Dame—full many a feature,
Which to the blind are hid, because unsought.
The birds, the flowers, the trees—if we but heed them,
All tell a tale of love of God to man.
The lilies of the field trust God to feed them,
And they are but one thought in His great plan.
The brook in its sweet way tells forth its gladness
A song of joy to the responsive heart.
True Nature—God's pure thought—knows naught of sadness
Or change, or of decay, for dust thou art—
