 | Earth's Voices |  |
VIII. THE SONG OF FLOWERS.
What is a bird but a living flower?
A flower but the soul of some dead bird?
And what is a weed but the dying breath
Of a perjured word?
A flower but the soul of some dead bird?
And what is a weed but the dying breath
Of a perjured word?
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A flower is the soul of a singing-bird,
Its scent is the breath of an old-time song:
But a weed and a thorn spring forth each day
For a new-done wrong.
Its scent is the breath of an old-time song:
But a weed and a thorn spring forth each day
For a new-done wrong.
Dead souls of song-birds, thro' the green grass
Or deep in the midst of the golden grain,
In woodland valley, where hill-streams pass,
We flourish again.
Or deep in the midst of the golden grain,
In woodland valley, where hill-streams pass,
We flourish again.
We flowers are the joy of the whole wide earth,
Sweet nature's laughter and secret tears—
Whoso hearkens a bird in its spring-time mirth
The song of a flow'r-soul hears!
Sweet nature's laughter and secret tears—
Whoso hearkens a bird in its spring-time mirth
The song of a flow'r-soul hears!
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