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by E. F. Hayward

I love the pansies, meek and mild;
They sooth my nature rough and wild,
They breathe a perfume in the air,
Which drives away all doubt and care.

In Winter's season when you go
To sleep beneath the ice and snow,
I'll wait and watch 'till sun and rain
Shall bring my pansies back again.

Oh pansies rare, with varied hue,
My heart shall ever yearn for you;
I'll treasure you through life, sweet flower.
And love you every day and hour,—

And when I leave this world of care,
And make the journey over there,
I'll know 'tis Heaven, when I see
My pansies, looking up at me.

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