And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God’s creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music, and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
Lovely indeed is morning! I have drank
Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt
Its delicate touch, and ’tis a kindlier thing
Than music, or a feast, or medicine.