Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.

There Is A Power Whose Care Teaches Thy Way.

The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign; And After Dreams Of Horror, Comes Again The Welcome Morning With Its Rays Of Peace.

Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

The Linden, In The Fervors Of July, Hums With A Louder Concert. When The Wind Sweeps The Broad Forest In Its Summer Prime, As When Some Master-hand Exulting Sweeps The Keys Of Some Great Organ, Ye Give Forth The Music Of The Woodland Depths, A Hymn Of Gladness And Of Thanks.