Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trails its wreath;
And tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure;
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Natures holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Submitted By: komal
In Category: April Fool
Added On: Monday, March 31, 2008