3 
As I have often done, high in the love 
Of the young tyro of the spade and rake. 
Look at the eager joyousness and pride 
With which the choicest of the little store 
Are plucked and offered you. The reddest rose — 
The tallest pink — and, treasure beyond all. 
The matron daisy and her circling brood, 
“ The hen and chickens.” How I love the glance 
Of exultation that conies with the gift! 
And wish, aye, from my very soul, that each 
Young school-immured being could so learn 
From Nature’s glorious book her marv’lous works— 
Pedants might lose their slaves, but worlds win men. 
And ai'e not Flowers the eaidiest gift of loveF 
Do they not, mutely eloquent, oft speak 
For absent or for trembling hearts, and bear 
Kisses and sighs on their perfumed lips — 
And worlds of thought and fancy in their leaves. 
Touched by the rainbow’s dyes? Have ye ne’er prized 
Some token-flower — an early rose — a bunch 
Of young Spring’s first and sweetest violets, culled 
And given into yours by hands so dear. 
That all Flowers seemed grown holier from that time ? 
Have you ne’er hoarded such a simple gift— 
Aye, through long years—e’en when each shrunken leaf 
Bore not a semblance to the thing it was. 
And the soft fragrance that had once been there 
B 2 
