I

The world is the garden of God.

And man — the weed and flower from its sod —

Is the crop.
Within this garden I'm a tiny seed
But if it be God's will not to a weed

Shall I grow up.

Pure are the depths of this ambitious breast,
A providence divine did it invest

With holy flames,
Which vestal fires on virtue's altar burn
Within my stainless heart and ever turn

To highest aims.

I ask. no favors at the hand of fate,
Whatever it may bring. I bravely wait

For bad — for good. —
Fate is capricious, what it gives to day,
Without ado to morrow takes away,

That's understood.

Just as the lowland's plain where I was born
As straight and even are my deeds, I scorn

Duplicity-
Plain is my speech and what I mean I say,
To me, — from truth's pathway to go astray

Is infamy.

A precious tree, — Almighty God above
Has planted in my heart of hearts: a love

Most passionate!
And from its twigs and flowers and leaves I twine
A wreath which I to thee, sweet home of mine,

Now dedicate.