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Edgar Guest - Picture Books
Work rating: Low

I HOLD the finest picture-books
Are woods an` fields an` runnin` brooks;
An` when the month o` May has done
Her paintin`, an` the mornin` sun
Is lightin` just exactly right
Each gorgeous scene for mortal sight,
I steal a day from toil an` go
To see the springtime`s picture show.

It`s everywhere I choose to tread—
Perhaps I`ll find a violet bed
Half hidden by the larger scenes,
Or group of ferns, or living greens,
So graceful an` so fine, I swear
That angels must have placed them there
To beautify the lonely spot
That mortal man would have forgot.

What hand can paint a picture book
So marvelous as a runnin` brook?
It matters not what time o` day
You visit it, the sunbeams play
Upon it just exactly right,
The mysteries of God to light.
No human brush could ever trace
A droopin` willow with such grace!

Page after page, new beauties rise
To thrill with gladness an` surprise
The soul of him who drops his care
And seeks the woods to wander there.
Birds, with the angel gift o` song,
Make music for him all day long;
An` nothin` that is base or mean
Disturbs the grandeur of the scene.

There is no hint of hate or strife;
The woods display the joy of life,
An` answer with a silence fine
The scoffer`s jeer at power divine.
When doubt is high an` faith is low,
Back to the woods an` fields I go,
An` say to violet and tree:
"No mortal hand has fashioned thee."
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