Each leaflet is a tiny scroll,
Inscribed with holy truth,
A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth;
Bright missiles from angelic throngs,
In every by-way left,
How were the earth of glory shorn
Were it of flowers bereft!

They tremble on the alpine heights.
The fissured rock they press,
The desert wild, with heat and sand,
Share stoo their blessedness;
And whereso e’er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks,
Inviting it to prayer.