oubt flies before the truth that's quired
When earth in living green 's attired,
As ghosts before the daystar's rising,—
The grass is ever God finger-spired.
When life is low my awe-stirred soul
No vision has of nature's whole;
It would unsheathe a weapon naked
And cut the bands of divine control.
The Nazarene knows no decrease,—
He shed His beams on Rome and Greece!
O radiant is His word: Consider
The springing grass, and have rest and peace!
he bird of needle beak, and breast
Of orange flame, doth weave its nest
At tip of branch, a cradle swinging
To all the airs of the south and west.
Who schooled thy needle to begin
Its forth and back and out and in,
Till plaited cot, a gourd-like pendant,
Shall temper winds to thy first of kin?
Thy sun-bright mate, his joy to prove,
Flutes sweet his ardors from above.
O golden robin, skyey-nested,