by Christina Rossetti
(Macmillan's Magazine, Jan. 1866.)
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:—
     We are as they;
     Like them we fade away,
As doth a leaf.
The sparrows of the air of small account:
     Our God doth view
Whether they fall or mount,—
     He guards us too.
The lilies that do neither spin nor toil,
     Yet are most fair:—
     What profits all this care
And all this coil?
The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;
     God gives them food:—
Much more our Father seeks
     To do us good.

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