How would the stony pathways of the street,
Threading the marts of trade, amid the heat
Of busy life, become like daisied fields
If wand of love should guide reluctant feet.
As sings the brook a-down the meadow ways,
Hopeful and glad to join the waiting sea,
So all the while we hasten through our days,
Sunny and bright, yet never stop to see
The flowers that bloom about our hurrying feet,
But, like the brook, oblivious of its fate,
We hasten on, the coming years to greet
Unmindful of the storms that there await.