136 ARBOR DAY 



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? 



