No violets, with hoods of blue,
To nod at mild spring’s coming;
No clover blossoms—would we hear
The busy bees’ soft humming?
And were there no forget-me-nots,
No buttercups or daisies,
The children would be lost for sports,
The poet lost for phrases.
No flowers, with their refining power
No wafts from yon sweet heaven—