  For Nature beats in perfect tune, And rounds with rhyme her every rune, Whether she works in land or sea, Or hide underground her alchemy. Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, Or dip thy paddle in the lake, But it carves the bow of beauty there, And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. The wood is wiser far than thou; The wood and wave each other know. Not unrelated, unaffied, But to each thought and thing allied, Is perfect Nature's every part, Rotated in the mighty heart. —Emerson. O painter of the fruit and flowers, We thank thee for thy wise design, Whereby these human hands of ours In Nature's garden work with thine. And thanks that from our daily need The joy of a simple faith is born. That he who smites the summer weed May trust thee for the autumn corn. Give fools their gold and knaves their power, Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall, Who sows a field or trains a flower Or plants a tree is more than all. For he who blesses most is blest, And God and man shall have his worth Who toils to leave as a bequest An added beauty to the earth. —Whittier.
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