Violets in a woodland glade
Bespeak the burgeoning spring
When, rapidly or long delayed,
Joy comes to everything.
From desert heath to forest tree
Each has its hour of praise,
Prepared for well and patiently
Through stormy winter days.
Is hope deferred? Are fond dreams wrecked?
With faith I yet shall see
The same beneficence "perfect
That which concerneth me."
Already good alone is true,
And man forever blest.
They compass their completeness who
On Love's perfection rest.
