Picture Books

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.”