Classic Poem

The flowers all wash their faces fair
With the dews of the smiling morn,
Then turn to greet the god of the air
As his light in the east is born.

They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring west
And a censer place in his hand,
Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best,
To waft o'er the festive land.

The flower of th' heart may lave in deeds
That refresh the worthy poor,
And th' soul's perfume is that which feeds
The hungry, weak, and sore.

* * * * *

That spring unfolds to pleasure's eye;
There's wisdom in the falling drop
That had its birth in yonder sky.
The breeze that fans the fevered brow,
Or gives new vigor to frail man,
Is but the breath of the Divine
Sent to fulfill benignant plan.