Here are no books to be written or read,
But cushions of softest moss instead,
Without a care to cumber;
And fern-leaf fans for the weary head,
Soothing the soul to slumber

Oh! come from the dusty haunts of trade,
From the desk, the ledger, the loom, the spade;
There is neither toil nor payment.
Forget for once, in this peaceful shade,
The sordid ways in which dollars are made,
And food and drink and raiment.

Consider the lilies, arrayed so fair,
In robes that an eastern king might wear,
Though never an eye may heed them;
And the sparrows, of whom His hand takes care,
For our Father in Heaven feeds them.

His rainbow spans the heavenly blue;
His eye takes note of the drops of dew,
And the sunset's golden arrows;
And shall He not take thought of you,
O man, as well as the sparrows?




SCIENCE, THE ICONOCLAST.