And the green grooves of the meadows
They are fair to look upon;
And the silver thrush and robin
Sing most sweetly on and on.
But the faces of the children-
They are fairer far than these;
And the songs they sing are sweeter
Than the thrushes' in the trees.
Little hands, our God has given
All the flower-bloom for you;
Gather violets in the meadows,
Trailing your sweet fingers through.
The swift tears that sometimes glisten
On their faces dashed with pain
Weave a rosy bow of promise,
Like the afterglow of rain.
The soft, verdant fields of childhood,
Certes, are the softer for
The dissolving dew of morning,
Noon's elate ambassador.
Looking skyward, do they wonder--
They, the children palm to palm-
What is out beyond the azure
In the infinite of calm?
Though they murmur soft "Our Father,"
Angel wings to speed it on
Past the bright wheels of the Pleiads,
Have they thought of benison?
Nay! the undefiled children
Say it bound by ignorance;
But the saying is the merit,
And the loving bans mischance.
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