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.

The berries of the brier rose Have lost their rounded pride: The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums Are drooping heavy-eyed.

There are eyes half defiant, Half meek and compliant; Black eyes, with a wondrous, witching charm To bring us good or to work with harm.

One sweetly solemn thought, Comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, Than I ever have been before

You may wear your virtues as a crown, As you walk through life serenely, And grace your simple rustic gown With a beauty more than queenly. Though only one for you shall care, One only speak your praises; And you never wear in your shining hair, A richer flower than daisies.

For little children everywhere A joyous season still we make; We bring our precious gifts to them, Even for the dear child Jesus' sake.