And saves with care (lest they be lost)
The dainty diagrams of frost.
He counts the hairs of every head,
And grieves to see a sparrow dead.
II
Among the yellow primroses
He holds His Summer palaces,
And sets the grass about them all
To guard them as His spearmen small.
He fixes on each wayside stone
A mark to show it as His own,
And knows when raindrops fall through air
Whether each single one be there,
That gathered into ponds and brooks.
They may become His picture books,
To show in every spot and place
The living glory of His face.
CECIDIT, CECIDIT BABYLON MAGNA!
By Theodore Maynard
The aimless business of your feet,
Your swinging wheels and piston rods,
The smoke of every sullen street
Have passed away with all your Gods.
