OUTDOORS 



Sweet daisies, by the vagrant seasons thinned, 

 Born of the sun and cradled in the wind. 



Color then there surely is, and life and 

 beauty and music in the lilt of hidden water,, 

 of wailing branches and aeolian harps above. 

 But surely not to the careless or unthinking 

 natures, nor to those who do not feel uplifted 

 and exhilarated by the dreams and fancies that 

 lurk beneath this hood and shade of winter, 

 which, after all, is only the mask of spring. 



If you care to, you may find enough to 

 make a bouquet of as you stroll through the 

 woods on a bright day, even if the season of, 

 snow has already entered on its reign. The 

 violets and wind-flowers are mere ghostly 

 memories, of course, and the harebells have 

 faded. The blue flag-lilies of the marshy pools 

 and the primroses of the slopes are under the 

 snows. The dainty honeysuckles are dreams 

 of a summer yet to be. Notwithstanding all 

 these absences, there are still color and life 

 and beauty if one but will seek for them. 



Gray thistle-pods, all rifled of their seeds, 

 Swaying and trembling in each passing gust; 

 December grasses, tarnished deep with rust, 

 And fluffy blooms of nameless tufted weeds; 

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