He plucked a bloom of Pimpernel.
   "The brave, wee, prayerful thing!" he said.
   "Look how it lifts its scarlet head,
Worshipping God.  For who can tell
What praise and thanfulness may well
From hearts of Scarlet Pimpernel?"
 
Said he, "Tho' you may deem it odd,
   I sometimes like to think, indeed,
   That every flower, every weed,
Sprung from this garden's fruitful sod,
Lifts up its head or seems to nod
Humbly; devoutly praising God."
 
He sighed, and cast the bloom away
   Beside a brother bloom it fell.
   "Ah, brother," said the Pimpernel,
"Too soon I die.  But, as you pray,
Commend me to the Throne; and say
My praise end because, today,
A turgid heaven passed this way."

"Den"
Herald, 28 January 1933, p8