THE Daffodil sang: '' Darling of the sun
Am I, am I, that wear
His colors everywhere.'

The Violet pleaded soft, in undertone:
'' Am I less perfect made,
Or hidden in the shade
So close and deep, that heaven may not see
Its own fair hue in me?'

The Rose stood up, full-blown,
Right royal as a Queen upon her throne:
'Nay, but I reign alone,'
She said, 'with all hearts for my very own.'

One whispered, with faint flush, not far away:
'I am the eye of day,
And all men love me;' and, with drowsy sighs,
A Lotus, from the still pond where she lay,
Breathed, 'I am precious balm for weary eyes.'

Only the fair field Lily, slim and tall,
Spake not, for all;
Spake not and did not stir,
Lapsed in some far and tender memory.
Softly I questioned her,
'And what of thee?'
And winds were lulled about the bended head,
And the warm sunlight swathed her as in a flame,
While the awed answer came,
'Hath HE not said?'