I love to hear the little birds
That carol on the trees;
I love the gentle, murmuring stream;
I love the evening breeze.
I love to hear the busy hum
Of honey-making bee,
And learn a lesson,--hard to learn,--
Of patient industry.
I love to think of Him who made
Those pleasant things for me,
Who gave me life, and health, and strength,
And eyes, that I might see.
The child who raises, morn and eve,
In prayer its tiny voice
Who grieves whene'er its parents grieve,
And joys when they rejoice,--
In whose bright eyes young genius glows,
Whose heart, without a blot,
Is fresh and pure as summer's rose,--
That child's a sunny spot.