Classic Poem

A FAIR place and pleasant, this same world of ours.
Who says there are serpents 'mong all the swee flowers?
Who says every blossom we pluck has its thorn?
Pho! pho! laugh these musty old sayings to scorn.

If you roam to the tropics for flowers rich and rare,
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there
If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true
Ye may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too.

But pr'ythee look there; could a serpent find room
In that close-woven moss, where those violets bloom?
And reach me that woodbine, (you'll get it with ease;)
Now, wiseacre, where are the thorns, if you please?

I say there are angels in every spot,
Though our dim, earthly vision discerneth them not;
That they're guardians, assigned to the least of us all
By Him who takes note if a sparrow but fall;

That they're aye flitting near us, around us, above,
On missions of kindness, compassion, and love;
That they're glad when we're happy, disturbed at our tears,
Distressed at our weaknesses, failings, and fears;

That they care for the least of our innocent joys,
Though we're cozened, like children, with trifles and toys;
And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too,
Where snake never harbored, and thorn never grew