NATURE'S ENDLESS BLOOM 121 



Nor less the flood of light that showers 

 On beauty's changed corolla-shades, 



The walks are gay as bridal bowers 

 With rows of many-petalled maids. 



I hear the whispering voice of Spring, 

 The thrush's trill, the robin's cry, 



Like some poor bird with prisoned wing 

 That sits and sings, but longs to fly. 



Oh for one spot of living green, 



One little spot where leaves Can grow, 



To love unblamed, to walk unseen, 

 To dream above, to sleep below ! 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



NATURE'S ENDLESS BLOOM 



(From "The Seasons ") 



AT once array'd 



In all the colours of the flushing year, 

 By Nature's swift and secret-working hand, 

 The garden glows, and fills the liberal air 

 With lavish fragrance ; while the promis'd fruit 

 Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd, 

 Within its crimson folds. . . . 

 Here their delicious task the fervent bees, 

 In swarming millions, tend ; around, athwart, 

 Through the soft air, the busy nations fly, 

 Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube, 

 Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul ; 



