Half the pure and sweet emotion
As the first spring-flower in April,
With its lashes tinged with crimson,
Partly raised from eyes half-timid,
Fearful that the snow will drown it;
How we love the dainty blossom,
How we wear it in our bosom.

Just so with the tree ancestral,
Many flowers may blossom on it,
But the first wee bud that's grafted,
To its heart, ah, how we love it;
Others may be loved as fondly,
But they are not loved so proudly,
Loved so blindly, so entirely.

Yes, when first the heart's door opens
To the touch of baby fingers,
Quick the dimpled feet will bear them
To the dearest place and warmest
Plenty room enough for other
Buds of beauty, buds of promise,
In the heart's capacious chambers;
But the first is firmly settled--
Little Harry's firmly settled
In the centre of affection;
Later ones must settle round him.