Authors:
  • Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
    The periwinkle trails its wreath;
    And 'tis my faith that every flower
    Enjoys the air it breathes.

    The birds around me hopped and played,
    Their thoughts I cannot measure;
    But the least motion which they made,
    It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

    The budding twigs spread out their fan,
    To catch the breezy air;
    And I must think, do all I can
    That there was pleasure there.

    If this belief from heaven be sent,
    If such be Nature's holy plan,
    Have I not reason to lament
    What man has made of man?