A little sprig of wattle.
“The old home now looks at its best,”
The message ran; “the country’s dressed
In spring’s gay cloak, and I have pressed
A little sprig of wattle.”
I almost see that glimpse of spring:
The very air here seems to ring
With joyful notes of birds that sing
Among the sprigs of wattle.
The old home snug amidst the pines,