Trailing Arbutus

Dear, lovely flower, whose fragrant lips unclose To breathe a benediction to the Spring, Soon as the blue-bird 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 band 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.