O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.

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

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.

O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.

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!

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