Ernest W. Shurtleff.
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,
Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—
Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;
Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.
Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—
They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.
I never heard a songster’s lay that told
Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise.
The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,