The flowers that God hath scatter’d on our path—
The kindly hearth;
The smile of love still brightening as we come,
Making the desert, home;
The seventh day of rest, the poor man’s treasure
Of holy leisure;
Bright sunshine, happy birds, the joy of flowers?
Ah, no! this earth of ours
Was “very good,” and hath its blessings still;
And if we will,