BECAUSE the rose the bloom of blossoms is,
And queenliest in beauty and in grace,
The violet's tender blue we love no less,
Or daisy, glancing up with shy, sweet face.

For all the music which the forest has,
The ocean waves, that crash upon the beach,
Still would we miss the whisper of the grass;
The hum of bees; the brooklet's silver speech.

We would not have the timid wood-thrush mute
Because the bul-bul more divinely sings,
Nor lose the scarlet of dear robin's throat,
For all the tropics' flash of golden wings.

So do I think, though weak we be, and small,
Yet is there One whose care is none the less:
Who finds, perchance, some grain of worth in all,
Or loves us for our very humbleness!