And tell me why so bright their hues appear,
Why they return with each revolving year;
Or how, when countless worlds are all in bloom,
O’er every bud is breathed its own perfume.
Yes, solve me this, and I’ll believe with thee,
’Twas meant that man should doubt all mystery.
Presumptuous worm! enough to know is given—
’Tis fearful meddling with the things of Heaven;
Its sacred mysteries belong alone
To Him whose paths are awful and unknown;