Every tree and plant, every tiny flower
That grows in wood or field,
Hath a voice that calls aloud to me,
And a beauty half concealed,
That draw my ears to hear a strain
Of music sweet and low,
And paint for me far richer hues
Than the sunset's evening glow;
They speak to me as no tongue can speak;
Their voices are sweeter far
Than the tones that fall from human lips,
Or strains of sweet music are.