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What brings the bright and shining leaf,
 The scarlet Poppy wears?
A consolation for our grief,
 A solace for our cares;
The ancients wreathed the brows of sleep,
 With the rich Poppy flowers,
For slumber dries the eyes that weep,
 And pictures happier hours;
And in its scarlet blossom rests
 A healing balm for wounded breasts.

Yes—flowers have tones—God gave to each
 A language of its own,
And bade the simple blossom teach
 Where’er its seeds are sown;
His voice is on the mountain’s height
 And by the river’s side,
Where flowers blush in glowing light,
 In Lowliness, or Pride;
We feel, o’er all the blooming sod,
It is the language of our God.

He spreads the earth an open book
 In characters of life,
All where the human eye doth look
 Seems with his glory rife;
He paints upon the burning sky
 In every gleaming star,
The wonder of his homes on high,
 Shining to faith afar;