Like sighs that are seen,

For man and his Maker harmonious toil, and the sigh

Of such labor is sweet,

And the fruits of their patience are vistas of vineyards and grain

In a glory of green.

No wind from the valley that passes the casement but flings

Invisible flowers.

The carol of birds is a gossamer tissue of gold

On a background of bells.

Sweetest of all, in the silence the nightingale sings