Albert Laighton (1829–1887)

DEAR, lovely flower, whose fragrant lips unclose

To breathe a benediction to the Spring,

Soon as the bluebird and the robin sing;

Sweetest and best that in the woodland grows;

Flushed like the morn, or white as drifted snows;

I love thee as a herald of the hours

That bring the beauteous train of forest flowers,

And all fair things God’s loving hand bestows.

But most for her sweet sake who held thee dear;

Who, in glad Springs, roamed with me hand in hand

These mossy paths where now alone I stray;

And yet whose gentle presence seems so near,

I half forget her angel feet to-day

Walk the green pastures of the better land.