WONDERFUL

New Zealand Tablet, 4 May 1911, Page 837

WONDERFUL

Isn't it wonderful, when you think,How the creeping grasses grow High on the mountain's rocky brink, In the valleys down below? A common thing is a grass-blade small, Crushed by the feet that pass— But all the dwarfs and the giants tall, Working till doomsday-shadow fall. Can't make a blade of grass. Isn't it wonderful, when you think, How a little seed asleep, Out of the earth new life will drink, And carefully upward creep A seed, we say, is a simple thing, The germ of a flower or weed But all earth's workmen, laboring, With all the help that wealth could bring, Never could make a seed. Isn't it wonderful, when you think, How the wild bird sings his song Weaving melodies, link by link, The whole sweet summer long? Commonplace is a bird, always, Everywhere seen and heard — But all the engines of earth, I say, Working on till Judgment Day, Never could make a bird.