Wild Flowers

We grow where none but God,
Life's Gardener,
Upon the sterile sod
Bestows His care.


Our morn and evening dew--
The sacrament
That maketh all things new--
From heaven is sent;


And thither, ne'er in vain,
We look for aid,
To find the punctual rain
Or sun or shade,


Appointed hour by hour
To every need,
Alike of parent flower
Or nursling seed;


Till, blossom-duty done,
With parting smile,
We vanish, one by one,
To sleep awhile.