“Where is she?” sighed the rose-trees,
The honeysuckle creepers,
The pansies, and the lilies,
And the little hidden flowers.
“We are lonely here without her,
In the sunlight, in the twilight,
In the daytime, in the night-time,
Through the solitary hours.”
“I know not,” said the young wind,
“Yet will I surely seek her,
And whisper low your message
Oh faithful-hearted few.
For men may kiss in passing,
And the world forget its passion,
But the soil, remembers ever,
And the love of flowers is true.”