"Blessed are the meek"

ELIZABETH HAYWARD GARDNER

The creeping grass that heals and mends and soothes
with gentle touch
The scarred and ragged turf till one may say,
"What lovely sward!"
The lichen, with its orange finger tips
Staining the stone,
And lending color to the frowning cliff,
Till one may marvel at the beauty shown
in rough gray rock;

The little raindrop silvering the pane,
And sliding down
To lose itself amid the eager roots
Of lily stalks,
To merge again in star-eyed loveliness
Or fragrant scent,
Or melting in the pool where birds may drink,
Go forth to hungry hearts in lyric song:
Humility!

None is for self, but each of all is part—
And all are one.
No single grass blade, of itself, the sod.
The lily cup,
Refreshed by trickling drops of silver rain,
Its fragrance pours
Upon the clean washed air and soothes the hearts
Of tired men: the bird lifts up its voice:
Each one serves all.

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