O little blade of grass, thy faith sublime
Bids thee aspire to pierce the stubborn clod;
Frosts cannot chill thy courage, upward still
Thou pushest "boldly through the frozen sod,
Up to the light and God.
The piercing wind of March its arrows fling
Full at thy heart, but thou art not afraid;
The snowflakes bury thee in gelid robe.
But through it all thou still art undismayed,
O little blithesome blade.
Thy hardy toiling is the law of growth,
An upward striving to the quickening light;
A constant struggle nobly to fulfil
The destiny of Good, omniscient Might,
In heat, or cold, or blight.
