Despise not simple things:
The humblest flower that wakes
In early spring, to scent the air
Of woodland brakes,
Should have thy love as well
As blushing parlor rose,
That never felt the perfect breath
Of nature round it close.
Despise not simple things:
The poor demand thy love,
As well as those who in the halls
Of splendor move.
The beggar at thy door
Thou shouldst not e’er despise;
For that may be a noble heart
Which ’neath his tatters lies.
Despise not little things:
An ant can teach of toil;
The buttercup can light the heart
With its own pleasant smile;
’Tis not from towering heights alone
The noble thought within us springs;
There’s something holy and sublime
In the love of simple things.
THE VIOLET.
“Oh, mother! mother! only look!
See what I’ve got for thee;
I found it close beside the brook,—
This pretty violet,—see.
“And father says there will be more
So, mother, when they come,
We’ll pick my little basket full,
And bring them with us home.
“And, mother,—only listen now!
’Tis very strange, indeed,—
This pretty flower, with leaves and all,
Was once a little seed.
“When it was planted in the ground,
The sun shone very bright,
And made the little seed so warm,
It grew with all its might.”
“Yes, Charles: the bright sun made it warm,
’Twas wet with rain and dew;
The leaves came first, and then, ere long,
We found the violet blue.
“Charley, I think when we are good,
Obedient, and kind,
Good feelings, like the little flowers,
Are growing in the mind.