From the field by the river’s brink,
Where violets hid his nest,
Soars high with a canticle of the blest
The jubilant bobolink.
—FRANCES L. MACE.
Open wide the windows—
The green hills are in sight,
Winds are whispering, “Violets!”
And—there’s a daisy white,
And the great sun says, “Good morning!”