I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.

For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

But alas for the dreams that round us play! / For the plans of mortal making! / And alas for the false and fickle day / That looked so fair at waking!

Give plenty of what is given to you, And listen to pity's call. Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?

I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.

Never is true love blind, but rather brings an added light.