Margaret Elizabeth Sangster 1838-1912 John Bartlett

    I know—yet my arms are empty,
  That fondly folded seven,
And the mother heart within me
  Is almost starved for heaven.

Are the Children at Home.

    Never yet was a springtime,
  Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
  Of the southwind, sweet and low;
Never yet was a springtime
  When the buds forgot to blow.