Hard by a little belt of wood,
In an old garden Eric stood,
With thoughtful brow and look intent,
As o'er some daffodils he bent.
While thus he stood his aunt drew near,
“Eric," said she, "what brings you here?”
“I only came to take a walk,
And with the daffodils to talk.”
“To talk to daffodils, you say,
Upon what subject, Eric, pray?”
“I wondered, auntie, if 'tweer good
The gardener took them from the wood.
“And so I asked them to reply
Where they liked best to live and die;
Whether as in the wood of old,
Or planted in the garden mold?”
"A question strange; what answered they,
The daffodils, so bright and gay?”
“Though long I, auntie, by them stayed,
They only bowed, no answer made.”
Now let it be our hearts' concern,
From Eric's daffodils to learn
To leave our path in God's own hand,
And silent bow to His command.
'Tis He, whose ways work for our good
Does better for us than we could;
Let Him for us our pathway choose,
That we His smile may never lose.
E. H. C.