The fresh pale gold of laburnum,
The rosy tint of the may,
And a faint, faint scent on the gentle air
At the close of a warm spring day.

The delicate tint of the lilac,
The purple iris, too,
All softened and shaded, embower'd and nestling
In green of restful hue.

Close by, the ceaseless throbbing
Of a busy city's life,
The murmer of many voices,
The distant hum of strife.

But, spite of the echoes of turmoil
And the tramp of many feet,
The birds pour out their woodland songs
And their notes are clear and sweet.

And thus with the hard-fought battle
Of this hurried life of ours,
Had we but faith, the air were sweet,
Our path were bright with flowers.

Could we but trust the glad bright song
In our hearts would never cease,
Did we offer our all, we forever should rest
In God's perfect love and peace.

by
E.E. Beatrice Foster (1907)