FIELD FLOWERS 



become clearer and purer; the rough 

 attempts disappear ; the half-dreams of 

 the night lift like a fog dispelled by the 

 dawn ; and the good rustic flowers be- 

 gin their unseen revels under the blue, 

 all around the cities where man knows 

 them not. No matter, they are there, 

 making honey, while their proud and 

 barren sisters, who alone receive our 

 care, are still trembling in the depths of 

 the hot-houses. They will still be there, 

 in the flooded fields, in the broken 

 paths, and adorning the roads with their 

 simplicity, when the first snows shall 

 have covered the country-side. No one 

 sows them and no one gathers them. 

 They survive their glory, and man 

 treads them under foot. Formerly, 

 [ 67 3 



