  Softly the breezes dance o'er the meadows, Wafting the perfume of sweet-scented May; Flecked are the green fields with sunshine and shadows, Telling so gently of earth's perfect day. From moss-covered rocks whereon we are seated, Nature spreads scenes such as art cannot yield; With flowers of rare beauty our vision is greeted, Our ears, with the bird-notes of forest and field. Dogwood with tints from pink to pure whiteness, Columbine crimson with pinnacled sheen, Pinks of carnation, and orchards in brightness, Vie with the meadows of velvety green. The bobolink chatters in notes of perfection, The oriole sings a love-song to his mate, The whippoorwill clings to his perch for protection, The crow laughs ha! ha! when the evening grows late. Squirrel and humming-bird flit by like spirits, Jack-in-the-pulpit stands ready to preach, The roll of the anthem the wood-choir inherits, Surpasses the harmony mortals can reach. The song of the bird-note, the hum of the bee, The tinkling of waters, the bursting of leaves, The perfume of flowers, the blossoming tree, Are sermons from Nature the pulpit ne'er gives. My soul sings with these, with these has communion, They lift me in thought to realms pure and bright; They speak of a Nature with which to have union Dispels all my sorrows and gives me delight. Every sigh of the breeze, every note of wild bird, Every plant that springs up from earth's fertile sod, Are sermons of eloquence when rightly heard, That soothe me and bring me nearer to God. |
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