Daisy. Oh dear, Miss Rose, do tell me please,
Is it you holds up the sky?

Rose. Dear Daisy, no, no, indeed,
I cannot reach so high.
And very far above me
Is the blue and lovely sky.

But if you wish to know.
To find out I will try.
Perhaps that tall fir tree
Is holding up the sky.

You lift your head so high,
Do you hold up the sky?

Fir Tree. [Shaking his head.]
Oh no, indeed, sweet Rose
It surely is not I!
It may be this lofty elm,
Who stands to me so nigh.

Elm. No, no, it is not I.
But a mountain very tall
In the distance I can spy,
And on his shoulders rests,
I think, the wondrous sky.

You lift your head so high,
Do you hold up the sky?

Mountain. And who is it who would
For these secrets pry?
I’ve stood here many an age,
But I never touched the sky.

Rose. Sweet Daisy, dearest friend,
I fear before we die
We never shall find out
Who is holding up the sky.

Daisy and Rose. [Together.]
O Bird, you fly up so high,
Will you not please tell us
Who is holding up the sky?

Bird. ’Tis He who made the daisy
And He who made the rose;
’Tis He who made the fir tree,
The elm, and all that grows.

’Tis He who made the mountain
And made the bird to fly—
The good and Heavenly Father,
Who holdeth up the sky.