DELICATE faces, pure and. pale, 

That hide in the shadowy nook, 

That faintly breathe to the stirring gales 

And broider the singing brooks.

They are first to welcome the timid spring

With gentle and starry eyes, 

And whisper to earth, sad slumbering,

The tidings of balmy skies.

Linger a little along the way, 

And gather their magic power,

Thanking the Father who sends the May, 

And fashions the sweet wild flower!

Mary M. Bowen.