MOCCASIN FLOWER. 



And paths whose flow is rhythmic with delight 



Their magic open wide ! 

 Yet shy and proud among the forest flowers, 



In maiden solitude, 

 Is one whose charm is never wholly ours, 



Nor yielded to our mood : 

 One true-born blossom, native to our skies, 



We dare not claim as kin, 

 Nor frankly seek, for all that in it lies, 



The Indian s moccasin. 

 Graceful and tall the slender drooping stem, 



With two broad leaves below, 

 Shapely the flower so lightly poised between, 



And warm her rosy glow ; 

 Yet loneliest rock-strewn haunts are all her bent, 



She heeds no soft appeal, 

 And they alone who dare a rude ascent 



Her equal charm may feel. 

 We long with her to leave the beaten road, 



The paths that cramp our feet, 

 And follow upward thro the tangled wood, 



By highways cool and sweet; 

 From dewy glade to bold and rugged steep 



Pass fleet as winds and showers, 



