The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts




Daffodil, lily, and crocus,
    They stir, they break from the sod,
They are glad of the sun, and they open
    Their golden hearts to God.

They, and the wilding families,—

    Windflower, violet, may,—
They rise from the long, long dark
    To the ecstasy of day.

We, scattering troops and kindreds,
    From out of the stars wind-blown

To this wayside corner of space,
    This world that we call our own,—

We, of the hedge-rows of Time,
    We, too, shall divide the sod,
Emerge to the light, and blossom,

    With our hearts held up to God.