But when the thought is beautiful, and language ain’t amiss,
O! tell me what on earth can bring a joy so pure as this.
They sadly err and slander too, this lovely world of ours,
Who say we gather thorns enough but never gather flowers,—
Why, look abroad on field and sky, there is a welcome there,
And who amid such happiness can weep or think of care?
The natural world is full of forms of beauty and delight,
The forest leaves are beautiful, there’s beauty in the light;
And all that meets us makes us feel that grieving is unkind,
And says be happy in this world, and fling your cares behind.