DEDICATION. 
I have not sought to wreathe my brow with laurel, 
Nor crown myself with bright and fadeless bays; 
As dear to me is a green sprig of sorrel, 
As all that poets strive for, — fame and praise. 
And yet I fain would ask your land attention 
To this, my harmless, inoffensive book; 
If it be not too low a condescension, 
I pray you, fair one, on these pages look. 
You will not, if you read, grow richer, wiser, 
And yet I feel that you may better grow, — 
For every flower is a kind adviser, — 
From each glad blossom little angels go. 
