Dear, lovely flower, whose fragrant lips unclose
To breathe a benediction to the Spring,
Soon as the blue-bird and the robin sing;
Sweetest and best that in the woodland grows;
Flushed like the morn, or white as drifted snows;
I love thee as a herald of the hours
That bring the beauteous train of forest flowers,
And all fair things God's loving hand bestows.
But most for her sweet sake who held thee dear;
Who, in glad Springs, roamed with me hand in band
These mossy paths where now alone I stray;
And yet whose gentle presence seems so near,
I half forget her angel feet to-day
Walk the green pastures of the better land.