God's winds lift high to barren rock A seed that clings, and laurel flings Its splendor down a mountainside. He lets a grain of genius fall Into the mire and Lo! a fire -- An illumination world-wide. Man, the provider, sows his seed In fertile soil with eager toil, That harvests him may gratify. Material are the crops he seeks -- His very need incurring greed That lets the finer things go by. A woman plants the seed of joy Anywhere; she breathes a prayer And fences it in with love. She plants for beauty, service, faith, Nor cares who reaps the ripened heaps -- The owlet or the cooing dove. |