I did not argue with the man,
 It seemed a waste of words.
He gave to chance the wondrous plan
 That gave sweet song to birds.
 
He gave to force the wisdom wise
 That shaped the honeybee,
And made the useful butterflies
 So beautiful to see.
 
And as we walked ‘neath splendid trees
 Which cast a friendly shade,
He said: ’Such miracles as these
 By accident were made.’
 
Too well I know what accident
 And chance and force disclose
To think blind fury could invent
 The beauty of a rose.
 
I let him talk and answered not.
 I merely thought it odd
That he could view a garden plot
 And not believe in God.

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