I hold the finest picture books Are woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks; An' when the month o' May has done Her paintin', an' the mornin' sun Is lightin' just exactly right Each gorgeous scene for mortal sight, I steal a day from toil an' go To see the springtime's picture show. It's everywhere I choose to tread -- Perhaps I'll find a violet bed Half hidden by the larger scenes, Or group of ferns, or living greens, So graceful an' so fine, I'll swear That angels must have placed them there To beautify the lonely spot That mortal man would have forgot. What hand can paint a picture book So marvelous as a runnin' brook? It matters not what time o' day You visit it, the sunbeams play Upon it just exactly right, The mysteries of God to light. No human brush could ever trace A droopin' willow with such grace! Page after page, new beauties rise To thrill with gladness an' surprise The soul of him who drops his care And seeks the woods to wander there. Birds, with the angel gift o' song, Make music for him all day long; An' nothin' that is base or mean Disturbs the grandeur of the scene. There is no hint of hate or strife; The woods display the joy of life, An' answer with a silence fine The scoffer's jeer at power divine. When doubt is high an' faith is low, Back to the woods an' fields I go, An' say to violet and tree: "No mortal hand has fashioned thee." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY ANTENOR, MARCH 16, 1661/2 by KATHERINE PHILIPS FRATERNITY by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH FROM AN EXCAVATION ON THE WARRIOR RIVER by ESTHER BARRETT ARGO A BALLADE OF COLLEGE GIRLS by F. R. BATCHELDER THE PASSION FLOWER by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN A GARGOYLE by ARTHUR STANLEY BOURINOT |