Classic Poem

The eyes that would my garden see,
Are not that outward objects view;
For this my Father gave to me,
And placed me here my work to do.

At morn, at noon, and evening hour,
With Him thou'lt find me at my toil;
And when the night dews wet the flower,
I watch lest thieves my treasures spoil.

Come, see, the rose is budding here,
The rose that blooms without a thorn;
No weeds the vale-born lilies fear,
That with their grace the spot adorn.

The lily's cup, the rose is thine,
If thou wilt give the strangers place;
On them thou'lt read in many a line,
The love that I have learned to trace.

It grows with every springing blade;
It falls with every evening dew;
'Tis this the light of morning made,
And spangles night's dark curtain too.

'Tis this that gives each flower to me,
And bids again each gift restore;
That I may live with Him I see,
And welcome those who pass my door.