1913
My Treasure
How joyous my little children are!
Not knowing how poor their father is,
Their voices are carefree and gay.
On a warm spring night
When it gently rains,
I gather my children in a room
And promise them a cherry-viewing party.
When my innocent ones
With their bright ruddy cheeks
Press about me,
How, indeed, can I complain
That I am poor?