ARBUTUS

WARWICK JAMES PRICE.

Dainty harbinger of spring,
Pure and pale and pink and sweet,
How your myriad voices sing
From the moss beneath my feet.

Do they only hymn the praise
Of their coverlet of snow?
Of the slowly lengthening days?
Of the southern winds that blow?

Do they not, too, prove the plan
Of the master Mind above?
That the coldest heart of man
Warms and blooms at touch of love?

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