Classic Poem

I think God took the fragrance of a flower,
A pure white flower, which blooms not for world praise,
But which makes sweet and beautiful some bower;
The compassion of the dew, which gently lays
Reviving freshness on the fainting earth,
And gives to all the tired things new birth;
The steadfastness and radiance of stars,
Which lift the soul above confining bars;
The gladness of fair dawns; the sunset's peace;
Contentment which from “trivial rounds” asks no release;
The life which finds its greatest joy in deeds of love for others—
I think God took these precious things, and made of them—the Mothers.

I think God took the fragrance of a flower,
A pure white flower, which blooms not for world praise,
But which makes sweet and beautiful some bower;
The compassion of the dew, which gently lays
Reviving freshness on the fainting earth,
And gives to all the tired things new birth;
The steadfastness and radiance of stars,
Which lift the soul above confining bars;
The gladness of fair dawns; the sunset's peace;
Contentment which from “trivial rounds” asks no release;
The life which finds its greatest joy in deeds of love for others—
I think God took these precious things, and made of them—the Mothers.