I SPIED beside the garden bed
— A tiny lass of ours,
Who stopped and bent her sunny head
— Above the red June flowers.

Pushing the leaves and thorns apart,
— She singled out a rose,
And in its inmost crimson heart,
— Enraptured, plunged her nose.

" O dear, dear rose, come, tell me true —
— Come, tell me true, " said she,
" If I smell just as sweet to you
— As you smell sweet to me! "