And yet she follows every turn 



With spires of closely clustered bloom, 



And all the wildness of the place, 



The narrow pass, the rugged ways, 

 But give her larger room. 



And near the unfrequented road, 



By waysides scorched with barren heat, 

 In clouded pink or softer white 

 She holds the Summer's generous light, 



Our native meadow sweet ! 



DORA READ GOODALE: Spiraea. 



