Classic Poem

The time of singing birds is here;
The annual miracle's begun;
And those who tread the forest-paths
Can pluck the blossoms, one by one.
It minds me of a story told,
Concerning flowers bright and fair,
Which, blooming near a cottage doomed,
Were yet as silent guardians there.

One day, while War's rude, crushing tread
Was heard o'er Southern plains afar,
While hearts were rendered desolate,
Homes, too, oft met the fate of war,
With swift revenge the soldiery
To many a cot the torch applied,
Until at last to one they came,
With sweet, bright flowerets at its side.

Their beauty was so eloquent,
The cottage, flower-adorned, was spared,
As if an angel interposed
When man the sword of vengeance bared.
Thus hath the Beautiful o'er man
A wondrous and a holy power;
Thus can it soothe the wrathful waves
That rise in Passion's stormy hour.

O Thou who cloth'st each blade of grass,
And paint'st the petals of the rose,
And fill'st the earth with beauty rare,
To us thy character disclose,
Till every beauteous thing of earth
Shall whisper to our souls of heaven;
And thine own beauty, holiness,
Shall be to all our spirits given!