Considering the lilies . . .
I cannot sing Thee hymns of praise
For teeming fields and granaries;
The thankful song that thrills my heart
Is not for one day set apart,
But fills my little cot with cheer
Where sweet content dwells all the year.
I do not crave a wider field
Beyond my walls' protecting shield,
Nor let ambition spur my soul
To distant search of doubtful goal;
No journey mine, o'er land and sea --
For here is all the world to me!
Here in my tiny garden plot
The restless world is well forgot;
My creed is simple, my love is great,
I thank Thee for so dear a fate.
A good man's love, a small child's need -
Ah, this is opulence indeed!
--Edith Vaughan Michaux
This is another poem found in great grandmother's scrapbook.