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'Midst which they seemed to look and laugh at us?
Oh! I can now recall th' unthrift delight
That filled my basket and my tiny hands
With buttercups, that shone in burnished gold,
And daisies, with their rose-tipped silvery rays
Spreading around the yellow boss within—
And some, most prized, that had not yet displayed
Their fairy circle, but emerging new
From their green hermitage, seemed as they blushed
Beneath the ardent sun's admiring gaze:—
And then, the treasure housed, with what proud care
The simple buds were ranged in vase or cup,—
Nothing to us too costly for their use,—
And set in sunny window with strict care
That none molest our wealth.
Aye, we were rich
In those young, innocent days—rich in our love
Of the not unveiled world—rich in our faith
That all was as it seemed—that life was truth.
Rich in its ignorance is infancy,
And every added year but makes more poor,
By added knowledge, childhood's guileless wealth—
The wealth of an unblighted, unchilled soul.
Flowers never lose their charm. When older grown,
See a child working in his little plot
