Despise not simple things:
The humblest flower that wakes
In early spring, to scent the air
Of woodland brakes,
Should have thy love as well
As blushing parlor rose,
That never felt the perfect breath
Of nature round it close.
Despise not simple things:
The poor demand thy love,
As well as those who in the halls
Of splendor move.
The beggar at thy door
Thou shouldst not e'er despise;
For that may be a noble heart
Which 'neath his tatters lies.
Despise not little things:
An ant can teach of toil;
The buttercup can light the heart
With its own pleasant smile;
'Tis not from towering heights alone
The noble thought within us springs;
There's something holy and sublime
In the love of simple things.