  [To His Royal Highness, Russell Fortune.] OUR little prince can’t understand That this is one of many springs; He thinks these days for him are planned, And that for him the robin sings. All wonder-eyed he walks afield And makes an invoice of the joys God strews around for little boys, And thinks for him they’re first revealed. It is a solemn thing to him! He wonders if it’s alright to pull The little wild flowers beautiful That in the sea of grasses swim. More gentle than the violet, He studies o’er those eyes of blue— Blue as his eyes are brown, and wet As his, sometimes, are wet with dew! Appreciative eyes are his! Into his apron takes he all The flowers that to his hand may fall— The poorest weed so precious is! His feet leave but the vaguest hints Of steps along the shadows where The knightly trees bend down and swear Allegiance to their little prince. O gentle, princely lad of ours, May nature ever hold your heart, And knowledge of her ways impart Through lessons of the spring-time flowers; May spring itself pass ever on And never lead to summer’s dust, But make your life an endless dawn, With endless love, and faith, and trust! |
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