A boy set out at break of day, with laughter light and steps so gay, to gather gifts the meadows hold – bright petals shy and marigold. He plucked the daisies, white and sweet, and violets near his small feet, a sprig of lavender so fair, and one red rose beyond compare. With trembling hands and heart alight, he knocked – then hid, just out of sight. His neighbour knew it well enough; that knocking was of children stuff. She kept the door wide open, so that he could to the entrance go. The neighbour smiled, her eyes so kind, and pressed a dollar in his hand. Oh, joy! He raced back down the lane, to tell the sky, the field, the plain. For love had bloomed in one small gain, – not just in stems, though hearts in pain.
