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I walk at morn where fairies brew,
On moonlit nights the clear, bright dew;
And every blossom holdeth up
In modest grace a dainty cup,
Enwreathed about with glossy leaves;
And every cup a drop receives,
And all the leaves with open palms--
Like little beggars asking alms--
Take the sweet gift with gratitude,
And seem to whisper: "God is good!"


The air is throbbing with the wings
Of birds, and bees, and fluttering things;
And all the world with song is rife,
With newborn hope and bounding life;
And Courage firmer sets his lance,
And Pleasure trips a lighter dance,
And Love and Joy make holiday
In all the smiling haunts of May;
And Faith grows stronger, and Trust more true
As if themselves baptized with dew.


And thus would I, this glad, bright hour--
Where queenly Beauty builds her bower--
Share in the sweetness and the light
That fill the earth and banish night;
The infinite delight of song,
The power to triumph over wrong,
The grace, the patience to endure,
And faith in Heav'n, a purpose pure,
And all things fair, and good, and true,
Whose symbol is the stainless dew.