Silent

I did not argue with the man, It seemed a waste of words. He gave to chance the wondrous plan That gave sweet song to birds. He gave to force the wisdom wise That shaped the honeybee, And made the useful butterflies So beautiful to see. And as we walked 'neath splendid trees Which cast a friendly shade, He said: 'Such miracles as these By accident were made.' Too well I know what accident And chance and force disclose To think blind fury could invent The beauty of a rose. I let him talk and answered not. I merely thought it odd That he could view a garden plot And not believe in God.