My child. I give to you these hills
To roam at will.
Bird songs that spill across the meadows
And the still brown earth.
Accept as thine:
Warm summer rains,
Hushed winds down wooded lanes,
These singing streams,
The gold of sunshine where it gleams
Against the bluff.
Here is enough of beauty running rife
To color the whole pattern of your life.
I could not will you more
If I possessed a store of wealth
Beyond the ken of mortal men;
For when I give you
Winds and trees and sod,
My child, I give you God!

Reprinted by IDEALS