With A Pressed Flower

This little blossom from afar Hath come from other lands to thine; For, once, its white and drooping star Could see its shadow in the Rhine. Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, Its petals in her evening walk. 'He loves me, loves me not,' she cries; 'He loves me more than earth or heaven!' And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven. And thou must count its petals well, Because it is a gift from me; And the last one of all shall tell Something I've often told to thee. But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find blossoms just as true, Down-bending every summer morn, With freshness of New England dew. For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among.