Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam

Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe,

And with a child's undoubting wisdom look

On all these living pages of God's book.

James Russell Lowell

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend, the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Charles Dickens

LITTLE WHITE LILY

Little White Lily sat by a stone,
Drooping and waiting till the sun shone.
Little White Lily sunshine has fed;
Little White Lily is lifting her head.

Little White Lily said: "It is good,
Little White Lily's clothing and food."
Little White Lily dressed like a bride!
Shining with whiteness, and crowned beside!

Little White Lily drooping with pain,
Waiting and waiting for the wet rain,
Little White Lily holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling and filling it up.

Little White Lily said: "Good again,
When I am thirsty to have the nice rain.
Now I am stronger, now I am cool;

Heat cannot burn me, my veins are so full."

Little White Lily smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine, rain at her feet.
Thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the rain,

Little White Lily is happy again.

George Macdonald

THE VOICE OF THE GRASS

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside,

On the sunny hillside,

Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All round the open door,
Where sit the agèd poor;

Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
In the noisy city street
My pleasant face you'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart
Toiling his busy part,—
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,
Nor hear my low sweet humming;
For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers

In summer's pleasant hours;

The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

My humble song of praise

Most joyfully I raise

To Him at whose command

I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Sarah Roberts Boyle

THE GRASS

The grass so little has to do,—
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,

And hold the sunshine in its lap

And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine,-

A duchess were too common

For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass

In odors so divine,

As lowly spices gone to sleep,

Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,

And dream the days away,

The grass so little has to do,

I wish I were the hay!

Emily Dickinson

"WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE”

When in the woods I wander all alone,

The woods that are my solace and delight,

Which I more covet than a prince's throne,
My toil by day and canopy by night;

(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, These lights shall light us to old age's gate,

While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright,
Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait;)
Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,
Weighing in thought the world's no-happiness,
I cannot choose but wonder at its moan,
Since so plain joys the woody life can bless:
Then live who may where honied words prevail,
I with the deer, and with the nightingale!

Edward Hovell-Thurlow

TREES

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer