I’m wondering if the woodlands 

Are full of the wild birds' song, 

Where nobody ever hears them, 

Or listens the whole day long; 


Or if the far-away meadows, 

That no man ever trod, 

Are full of beautiful flowers 

Upspringing on all the sod; 

Do you think the birds and blossoms 

Just blossom and sing for God? 

Perhaps sometimes when the twilight 

Of a fainter glory falls 

On the streets of the golden city, 

And over the shining walls, 

God leaves some trustiest angel 

In charge of the "great white throne," 

And comes through the gate of heaven, 

To visit them all alone. 

How they must watch for his coming,— 

The birds and the blossoms sweet,— 

And listen in loving silence 

To the passing of his feet; 

There are lovelier birds and flowers, 

They say, in his land of rest," 

But may be they are the angels' 

And the Lord loves these the best. 

And oh I—if I were a blossom, 

To gladden the summer long, 

Or bird, to weave with the sunshine 

My daintiest thread of song, 

Away in the far off woodland, 

That no man has ever trod, 

I'd be a bird or a blossom 

That blossomed or sung for God.