The Meadow
Oh! the playground of the dew— The meadow is a charm anew; With daisies dancing on the grass, Where busy bees in summer pass.
The wildflowers are bright and gay, In splendor bold, they weave their play; While little creatures hop and leap, In joy profound, in daylight’s keep.
The stalks of golden grain arise, Like waves beneath the sunny skies; And when the wind blows through the glade, The very whisper seems a prayer made.
A temple built by nature’s hand—
The meadow is a holy land; Where peace is found in every blade, And joy resides that never fades.
- George William Curtis