MY GIFT.

A GIFT she held from the Father; It was pansies fresh with dew; Sweet messengers of Heaven, They bear a blessing true. But her hand too lightly clasped, And could not hold them all, So to the ground unheeded, She let the fairest fall. The uplifted lips of the flower Did not mutely plead in vain; From the dust the blossom I raised, And gave to the owner again. Sweet Pansy's robe is purple, Her crown of the purest gold; All hearts who know, enthrone her, All love her who behold. But I'll away to the forest, And seek my treasures there; 'Tis there Arbutus hideth, Her blossoms I may wear. This is my gift from the Father, Arbutus buds are mine; I'll sing their modest beauty, In them read Heaven's design. And I will bear to the Giver The fragrance and the song That fills my life with blessing— To Him my blooms belong. Rockville, Mass. With love of Arbutus.