The gorgeous tulip, though arrayed
In gold and gems, knows naught of care,
The violet in the mossy glade
Of labour has no share.
They toil not—yet the lily’s dyes
Phœnicean fabrics far surpass,
Nor India’s rarest gem out-vies
The little blue-eyed grass.
For God’s own hand hath clothed the flowers
With fairy form and rainbow hue,