A Thought

Last spring on the north side of our house the ice-bound earth was like a rock. Almost before the ice was gone, the earth cracked open with the tiny pressure of a little lily of the valley.

If you say the sun made that crevice in the hard earth, we ask, if the sun alone did the work, why should the long fissure come always over the little flower that is almost too tender to stand the pressure of our loving fingers? Nor does the lily of the valley bruise itself in pressing out of its hard tomb.

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Poem
A Flower Legend
April 12, 1900
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