  The flowers all wash their faces fair With the dews of the smiling morn, Then turn to greet the god of the air As his light in the east is born. They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring west And a censer place in his hand, Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best, To waft o'er the festive land. The flower of th' heart may lave in deeds That refresh the worthy poor, And th' soul's perfume is that which feeds The hungry, weak, and sore. There's food for thought in every leaf That spring unfolds to pleasure's eye; There's wisdom in the falling drop That had its birth in yonder sky. The breeze that fans the fevered brow, Or gives new vigor to frail man, Is but the breath of the Divine Sent to fulfill benignant plan. |
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