Classic Poem

He deemed his task a solemn one,
And kneeled in sombre garb to pray;
Made much of symbols, ancient rites,
Of holy book and sacred day.

I, on the grass beneath the pine —
A pagan to my finger tips,
Accounting every flower divine,
Breathed incense from its petal lips.

And God, in His almighty love,
Knowing our need, and nothing loath,
Leaned kindly from His heavens above
And poured His blessing on us both.