"Where's mother?" and with eager haste
He bore Love's offering; The first, bright flowers which oped their eyes;
Sweet heralds of the Spring.

Those tiny stars which dot with light
The young year's tender green; As silvery tapers gem the doole
Of evening's sable screen.

Ho! worlding of the callous mind!
Deem this a trifling thing? O'er little deeds of loyal love
Great mother-love doth sing.

More precious from those chubby hands,
Those sweet, wild flowers of Spring, Than priceless jewels from the store
Of coroneted king.