THE SHRUBS. 



'T is true, among the brotherhood 

 Of regal trees that hold their place 

 Like sceptred kings, you have no rank, 

 Dear children of the humbler race. 



Instead you ever seem to stand 

 In mute appeal for love and care, 

 With offered gifts of grace and bloom, 

 In lowly places everywhere. 



But, children of the humbler race, 

 'T is therefor that we give you praise. 

 You give your souls (your flowers), and we 

 Our love, through all the changing days. 



