90 SUMMER IN A BOG. 



THE WOMAN BOTANIST. 



Always a voice is calling 

 In the city's roar and clangor, 

 Or the silence of the room; 

 - Now with tender message pleading, 

 Or, again, with loud insistence 

 When the world is all abloom. 



'T is the voice of the lone wild-wood. 

 Of the forests man-forsaken. 



Of the meadows flower-gemmed ; 

 Of the streams that murmur softly 

 O'er the white and shining pebbles, 



'Tween the banks with sedges hemmed. 



'T is the voice of Mother Nature, 

 From her cool and dim recesses, 



In the places undefiled. 

 0, I hunger for the woodland. 

 And I hear her, and I answer. 



And I seek her, I her child! 



