February 6

They toil not.

SILVER and gold! The snowdrop white And yellow-blossomed aconite,

Waking from winter's slumber cold,

Their hoarded treasures now unfold,

And scatter them to left and right.

Ah, with how much more rare delight

Upon my sense their colours smite

Than if my fingers were to hold

Silver and gold.

They bear the superscription bright

Of the great King of love and might

Who stamped such beauty there of old

That men might learn, as ages rolled,

To trust in God, nor worship quite

Silver and gold.

RICHARD

WILTON

TOWARDS LIGHT