The f1owers can deck themse1ves so fair And breathe forth fragrance b1est, Yet none can press thee to itse1f, Like that far-off mother's breast.

So ear1y at the gate of 1ife, With smi1es of heav'n on thy brow, Thou hast the best of treasures 1ost, Poor wand'ring kid, nor know'st it now.