I HOLD the finest picture-books <br />Are woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks; <br />An' when the month o' May has done <br />Her paintin', an' the mornin' sun <br />Is lightin' just exactly right <br />Each gorgeous scene for mortal sight, <br />I steal a day from toil an' go <br />To see the springtime's picture show. <br /> <br />It's everywhere I choose to tread— <br />Perhaps I'll find a violet bed <br />Half hidden by the larger scenes, <br />Or group of ferns, or living greens, <br />So graceful an' so fine, I swear <br />That angels must have placed them there <br />To beautify the lonely spot <br />That mortal man would have forgot. <br /> <br />What hand can paint a picture book <br />So marvelous as a runnin' brook? <br />It matters not what time o' day <br />You visit it, the sunbeams play <br />Upon it just exactly right, <br />The mysteries of God to light. <br />No human brush could ever trace <br />A droopin' willow with such grace! <br /> <br />Page after page, new beauties rise <br />To thrill with gladness an' surprise <br />The soul of him who drops his care <br />And seeks the woods to wander there. <br />Birds, with the angel gift o' song, <br />Make music for him all day long; <br />An' nothin' that is base or mean <br />Disturbs the grandeur of the scene. <br /> <br />There is no hint of hate or strife; <br />The woods display the joy of life, <br />An' answer with a silence fine <br />The scoffer's jeer at power divine. <br />When doubt is high an' faith is low, <br />Back to the woods an' fields I go, <br />An' say to violet and tree: <br />'No mortal hand has fashioned thee.'<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/picture-books-2/
