WHEN fields are green and days are fair,
And hearts respond,
I'll make a posy rich and rare
For Sigismond.
No artificial growth of flowers
Shall find a place
In that bouquet; but woody bowers
O'er Nature's face
And every broad and sunny mead
Shall give to me
Fresh blooms to satisfy my need,
For love of thee.
The modest blooms of early prime
Become thee best;
The arbute, springing ere its time,
Read more in News
Co-operative Society Bulletin.