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.

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?

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.

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

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.

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.