The loss is riches while I live,

        A joy I would not lose:

      Choose ever, God, what Thou wilt give,

        Not leaving me to choose.

      "What said the flowers in whisper low,

        To soothe me into rest?"

      I scarce have words—they seemed to grow

        Right out of God's own breast.

      They said, God meant the flowers He made,

        As children see the same;

      They said the words the lilies said