I love the fair lilies and roses so gay

All the woodland path is broken By warm tints along the way, And the low and sunny slope Is alive with sudden hope When there comes the silent token Of an April day,—

And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red.

Whence is yonder flower so strangely bright? Would the sunset's last reflected shine Flame so red from that dead flush of light? Dark with passion is its lifted line, Hot, alive, amid the falling night.

Crimson clover I discover By the garden gate, And the bees about her hover, But the robins wait. Sing, robins, sing, Sing a roundelay,—

The Autumn wood the aster knows, The empty nest, the wind that grieves, The sunlight breaking thro' the shade, The squirrel chattering overhead, The timid rabbits lighter tread Among the rustling leaves.

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—