If The World 's A Vale Of

June Falls Asleep Upon Her Bier Of Flowers; In Vain Are Dewdrops Sprinkled O'er Her, In Vain Would Fond Winds Fan Her Back To Life, Her Hours Are Numbered On The Floral Dial.

Let Us Not Depreciate Earth. There Is No Atom In It But Is Alive And Astir In The All-penetrating Splendor Of God. From The Infinitesimal To The Infinite, Everything Is Striving To Express The Thought Of His Presence With Which It Overflows.

The Peach-bud Glows, The Wild Bee Hums, And Wind-flowers Wave In Graceful Gladness.

Thou Hastenest Down Between The Hills To Meet Me At The Road, The Secret Scarcely Lisping Of Thy Beautiful Abode Among The Pines And Mosses Of Yonder Shadowy Height, Where Thou Dost Sparkle Into Song, And Fill The Woods With Light.

Those Who Plant Trees Plant Hope.