Classic Poem

In the thick and grassy wood,
Where the sunny streaks are breaking,
And the birds their songs are waking,
Where the mossy flowers repose,
There the pretty strawberry grows.

Pretty strawberry, fresh and sweet,
Say who made your cheek so shining,
Like the crimson sun declining,
And who made your pleasant smell,—
Tell me, pretty strawberry, tell?

It was God who made you so;
God, your ruddy color brightens,
And your charming odor heightens.
Leafy pines, and firs so straight,
Whisper, “Children, God is great.”