If but the furry catkin small
Could speak with gentle voice
And bid the sad, Rejoice!
A pussy-willow should be all
My valentine.
If but the golden daffodil,
With many a cheerful word,
Could tell what it hath heard
By meadow, wood, or murmuring rill,
It should be mine.
If but the valley-lilies pure
Could whisper in thine ear
A message thou wouldst hear,
Of One whose promises are sure,
Whose love divine,
Such flowers my valentine should be.
Yet sought I none of those,—
Only one crimson rose
To bear its Maker’s heart to thee,—
Lo, it is thine!