You hold the wistful blue of mothering skies,
The rose of tender dawns that glowed for you,
The green of sheltering grasses,—myriad dyes,—
And in your little heart, rimmed round with blue,
Serenely shrined, a tiny likeness lies
Of the gold sun, in whose great light you grew.
You give your very self in blossoming;
Your small largesse is prodigally spent;
Joyously wide your tiny leaves you fling,
Dispensing smiling what to you was lent.
May I, God's child, reflect His love, and sing,
Bestow my all, as you, and be content.
