A humble roadside flower in bloom
Enjoys its transient summer days;
The night winds spare its suave perfume,
And soft suns woo it with their rays:
It lives but for a time, yet praise
Is lavished on it, and by whom?
By one who in his wrathful hours,
Counted my life less than a flower's!

The star whose silver tints the night,
Is blessed with joys beyond our ken;
It sheds its soulful, placid light
Upon the devious paths of men;
It is its duty to be bright,
And shine on snow, on mire or fen; —
Yet God who made it in his pride
Abandons me without a guide!

The bird that sings in yonder nest,
Has gifts most gracious to it given;
The gift of song, that warms the breast,
Song, which must be a part of Heaven!
Tell me, my spirit, art thou blesst
With kindness such, though thou hast striven,
Did He, Creator, condescend
To be to me a God, a friend?

No, no, I linger in the dark,
Gnawed by great grief and cruel pain,
I am a shattered, sea-tossed bark
Dashed into wreck on Life's rough main;
To save or soothe no holy spark
Can show me now a haven again!
Oh God, why count me in thy power,
Less than thy bird, thy star, thy flower?