Against the work of nature's sky;
What work of man could ever compare.
Despite how hot shines Heaven's eye,
Man's work is naught, 'side nature fair.

What painted canvas or sculpted stone?
The greatest works of art are bland.
And like to seeds are scattered sown;
'Gainst simple truth of nature's hand.

What words, or tune, or poem, or book;
What plastered fresco on the wall,
Competes 'gainst sweet bubbling brook,
Or autumn leaves 'ere they fall.

If god exists, 'tis in the trees,
The humble bush that blooms so bright,
The verdant fields and sapphire seas,
The subtle tones of purple night.

Truth is beauty and beauty truth;
A painted tree who's boughs won't sway,
Is to a true tree a shadow uncouth
For true fades and will wane and die.