The little tender blades of grass,
The tiny buds of green,
The shoots, the fronds that in a mass
Beneath the moss are seen;
The delicate untempered growth
That every forest bears,
As if the very Earth were loath
To advertise her wares,—
Are still as beautiful, as dear
To Him who gave them life
As any bloom that does not fear
The highway and the strife.

The hidden, gentle thoughts that rise
Like wind blown scent of flowers
Wafting their incense to the skies
Endowed with secret powers
To charm, to soothe, to drive away
The rough, uncouth veneer
Of unkind moods that try to slay
With barb or pointed spear,—
How we should welcome them, & know
From whence their sweetness springs—
To set the happy heart aglow,
To give the spirit wings.