Epigraph

Here is a chain for you, sweet,
Hold up your soft hands to catch it;
Pansy and white marguerite,
You will think nothing can match it.

But you will say, Are they true?
All of the flowers in the chain, dear?
Did they all grow up with you,
Or some of them just in your brain, dear?

Count true the white marguerite,
Pansies—as false I must own them.
Life, it may well be, my sweet,
Had not so fair to you grown them.

E. S. C.