The Atheist in his garden stood,

At twilight's pensive hour,

His little daughter by his side,

Was gazing on a flower.

"Oh, pick that little blossom, Pa,"

The little prattler said,

"It is the fairest one that blooms

Within that lowly bed."

The father plucked the chosen flower,

And gave it to his child;

With parted lips and sparkling eye,

She seized the gift and smiled.

"O Pa—who made this pretty flower,

This little violet blue;

Who gave it such a fragrant smell,

And such a lovely hue?"

A change came o'er the father's brow,

His eye grew strangely wild,

New thoughts within him had been stirred

By that sweet artless child.

The truth flashed on the father's mind,

The truth in all its power,

"There is a God, my child," said he,

"Who made that little flower."