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I told her all my love, and sure
Joy made me eloquent,
For though her blush was deep, her brow
No frown upon me bent.
Little she spoke, but her small hand
Was not withdrawn from mine,
And the bright tear which I might see
Under the eyelash shine
Told not of sorrow, but deep joy;
And soon a smile o'erspread
Her blushing face, that chased away
The tear-drop ere 'twas shed.
Together joined we that gay throng
That happy birth-day eve;
Our loneliness had passed away,
As ye may well believe.
Such was the story told by one
Who well might love to gaze
Upon the lowly bud that bore
Such dreams of earlier days.
But ever does that humble flower
That gems the aging year,
