In The First Rare Spring Of Song, In My Heart'S Young Hours, In My Youth 'T Was Thus I Sang, Choosing 'Mid The Flowers: - "Fair The Dandelion Is, But For Me Too Lowly; And The Winsome Violet Is, Forsooth, Too Holy. 'But The Touchmenot?' Go To! What! A Face That's Speckled Like A Common Milking-Maid'S, Whom The Sun Hath Freckled. Then The Wild-Rose Is A Flirt; And The Trillium Lily, In Her Spotless Gown, 'S A Prude, Sanctified And Silly. By Her Cap The Columbine, To My Mind, 'S Too Merry; Gossips, I Would Sooner Wed Some Plebeian Berry. And The Shy Anemone - Well, Her Face Shows Sorrow; Pale, Goodsooth! Alive To-Day, Dead And Gone To-Morrow. Then That Bold-Eyed, Buxom Wench, Big And Blond And Lazy, - SHe's Been Chosen Overmuch! - Sirs, I Mean The Daisy. Pleasant Persons Are They All, And Their Virtues Many; Faith I Know But Good Of Each, And Naught Ill Of Any. But I Choose A May-Apple; She Shall Be My Lady; Blooming, Hidden And Refined, Sweet In Places Shady." In My Youth 'Twas Thus I Sang, In My Heart'S Young Hours, In The First Rare Spring Of Song, Choosing 'Mid The Flowers. So I Hesitated When Time Alone Was Reckoned By The Hours That Fancy Smiled, Love And Beauty Beckoned. Hard It Was For Me To Choose From The Flowers That Flattered; And The Blossom That I Chose Soon Lay Dead And Scattered. Hard I Found It Then, Ah, Me! Hard I Found The Choosing; Harder, Harder Since I've Found, Ah, Too Hard The Losing. Haply Had I Chosen Then From The Weeds That Tangle Wayside, Woodland And The Wall Of My Garden'S Angle, I Had Chosen Better, Yea, For These Later Hours - Longer Last The Weeds, And Oft Sweeter Are Than Flowers.