Men lose their ships, the eager things
To try their luck at sea,
But none can tell, by note or count,
How many there may be.
One turneth east, another south--
They never come again,
And then we know they must have sunk,
But neither how nor when.
God sends his happy birds abroad--
"They're less than ships," say we;
No moment passes but he knows
How many there should be.
One buildeth high, another low,
With just a bird's light care--
If only one, perchance, doth fall,
God knoweth when and where.