Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.

Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be; that what we plan we build

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!

All the great blessings of my life are present in my thoughts today

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.

But whenever she thanks the givers for favors great and small, she thinks of the good little sister who gave her more than they all.