Ye golden bells, that toss your heaven-born fragrance
On air around,
And know to make the most harmonious music
Without a sound!

Ye fragile flowers, whose delicate, dear tendrils
Upward do climb,
Reveal to us the sweet, mysterious secret
Of love sublime!

Entwining with your gentle cunning fingers
The ragged tree,
Ye leave behind ye crowns and chaplets wondrous,
Of jewelry!

Not pearls nor diamonds of a radiance peerless,
Not amethyst.
When softly swaying on the human bosom,
Or flexile wrist,

Can add to life and beauty lustrous splendor,
With grace divine,
As when ye wreathe on gnarled oak and holly
Your trailing vine!

Oh, love of God! in gracious ways unnumbered,
With gentlest touch,
Thou teachest men and pitifully showest
Of patience much!

We pray, dear Father, teach thine erring children
This lesson meet—
To climb through fragile, earth born, human tendrils
To life complete.

Quarterly, 1871.