SONGS AND CHORUS 351 



Think of all our treasures, 



Matchless works and pleasures, 

 Every one a marvel, more than thought can say; 



Then think in what bright showers 



We thicken fields and bowers, 

 And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton 

 May; 



Think of the mossy forests 



By the bee-birds haunted, 



And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 

 enchanted. 



Trees themselves are ours; 



Fruits are born of flowers; 

 Beech, and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring; 



The lusty bee knows well 



The news, and comes pell-mell, 

 And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome 

 antheming: 



Beneath the very burden 



Of planet-pressing ocean 



We wash our smiling cheeks in peace a thought for 

 meek devotion. 



Who shall say that flowers 

 Dress not heaven's own bowers? 

 Who its love, without us, can fancy or sweet floor ? 



Who shall even dare 



To say we sprang not there - 



