Who does not love a flower?
Its hues are taken from the light,
Which summer's sun flings pure and bright,
In scattered and prismatic hues,
That shine and smile in dropping dews;
Its fragrance from the sweetest air,
Its form from all that's light and fair; —
Who does not love a flower?

A lesson to the giver.
Not in the streets to bloom and shine,
Not in the rout of noise and wine,
Not trampled by the rushing crowd,
Not in paved streets and cities proud—
From danger safe, from blighting free,
Pure, simple, artless, let it be
An emblem of the giver.