190 WILD BLOWERS. 



And yet the flowers I prize so much, 



Than cultured flowers are not more sweet, 

 And they are withered sooner far, 



Than those we in the garden meet 

 Their colours are not half so gay 



As tints of flowers from far-off land, 

 From isle of Greece, or Indian grove, 



Nurtured by man with careful hand. 



But meadow flowers bring to my mind 



The thoughts of pleasant days gone by, 

 When with my sisters, hand in hand, 



We roamed beneath the summer sky ; 

 And twined a garland for our hats, 



Of blossoms from each bush around, 

 And linked the daisies into chains, 



And culled the cowslips from the ground. 



And then I love the field flowers, too, 

 Because they are a blessing given 



Ev'n to the poorest little one, 



That wanders 'neath the vault of heaven ; 



